


A Case Closed

by EnigmaRust



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-14 03:19:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 38,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9157906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnigmaRust/pseuds/EnigmaRust
Summary: "For the third time, police are baffled at the seemingly random murders"…"Nothing is given on the identity of the latest victim gunned down on Baker Street"… "It's at times like this one almost wishes the fable of Sherlock Holmes would rise and help solve this baffling and bloody puzzle…" No slash. Rated for a bit of gore and a tad of swearing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello fellow people! Here's a fic I wrote many years ago, in the simpler times of 2012 and 2013. Keep in mind this is written pre-Season 3, and I've changed nothing except maybe a few grammar/word fixes--it still has that aged-fic feel. I just figured hey, might as well dust it off and post it as my first fic on AO3! Thanks so much for taking a gander!

The pub was dull, smoky and loud.  It gave service to exactly the type of people expected; dull, smoky, and…and loud.  It wasn’t the grandest pub in London, nor was it the cheapest, or one that sold quite the best drinks.  Its food was best represented by the expressions on the customers’ faces following a bite; a polite nod, and a bit of a wince.  But, it was fairly close to Baker Street.  And it was friendly.  And John Watson was fond of it.

He pushed open the door, bringing with him a gush of sleet scented wind that caused one girl to flash him a dirty look, pulling up her sandaled feet.  John didn’t even bother to give her a look back; he’d long passed the point where he tried to make sense of some women’s reactions, so it didn’t irk him that she’d somehow expected him to teleport through the door.  Or the fact that she was wearing sandals in late November. 

Plus, he’d tried giving women Looks before.  They didn’t work.  At least, not when he attempted them.  Though he could always count on them as a dependable and consistent method for securing a night on the couch.

 _But that’s not what you’re supposed to think about, is it, John?_ he reminded himself.  No, it wasn’t.  As of yesterday, those shameful, couch bedecked nights were behind him.  And he was right pleased.  Not quite as pleased as he would have been if it was actually him that did the breaking up, but pleased enough.  He _was_ the one that had started the fight, anyway.  That was something.  Not a massive something, but a something nonetheless. 

John shook his head and sat himself on a stool, twirling to rest his arms on the counter.  It wouldn’t have worked out.  If it wasn’t then, it would have been another night, over an issue as equally trivial.  The fight had been simply because she’d yet again inadequately cleaned the back of the dishes.  John had made a point of showing her this time, holding up a plate and showcasing the criminal smear of peanut butter and jam on the bottom. 

She’d frowned, crossed her arms, and flatly denied responsibility. 

John had continued standing there, holding the plate like a protest sign, and stared at her in disbelief.  In fact, that moment was probably when John attempted a Look of his own.  It would explain the row that followed, at any rate. 

But if she’d known John—which she _should_ have, considering it would have been their four month anniversary in a week—she would have known that if there was one thing that John prided himself on, it was his absolute dedication to cleaning dishes thoroughly.  It was a habit that had grown in his youth and cultivated during his time in the army.  Though, there it was more then military precision—living out of tents in Afghanistan meant only those skilled at dishwashing would escape a mouthful of sand come mealtime. 

Understandably, then, a pet peeve high on his personal list was slipshod dishwashing.  To see a cup with residue on the bottom in the cupboard or a spoon with a coffee drip circle in the cutlery drawer was enough to make him grind his teeth.  John had had plenty of experience with this peeve, given the fact that a certain past flatmate was absolutely flawless at leaving at least one undesirable something on every dish he “washed”, unless it happened to be a beaker or graduated cylinder. 

_But you’re not supposed to think of that either, are you._

John shook his head again, and rubbed his face with a cold hand.  And nearly ripped half of the skin off his forehead when a foghorn voice boomed nearby. 

“Ah, he’s back!  John!” 

The sweaty barman lumbered over, carrying two glasses in a large hand and grinning, a gap visible where he’d lost an incisor to the elbow of a flailing drunkard.  His moss green shirt with _Peggy’s_ embroidered over the pocket was taut over a sizable midsection, and sported its usual damp areas that showed his lack of patience in finding a towel to dry his hands, despite the fact it was usually hooked over his shoulder.  The dim light from above shone on the apple-sized patch of baldness on the crown of his head. 

“Hey, Vern.”  John flashed a smile, though surreptitiously rubbing his forehead.  “How’re you?”

“Not bad, not bad at all.”  He stuck one of the glasses under a beer tap.  “How’s the lady?”

“Ah…taking a break, actually.” 

“That’s too bad, Johnny.  I kinda liked her.”  Vern sent the beer John’s way; he’d been anticipating this and stopped it deftly, learned after the first few times Vern had caught him off guard and the beer continued all the way off the counter. 

“Vern, you like any girl who smiles at you.”

“Well hey, you know what they say.  Smile’s the gateway to the soul.”

“I’m quite sure it’s the _eyes_ that are the gateway to the soul.”

“Well, that ain’t right,” Vern said indignantly.  “I’ve met plenty of blind blokes, and I wouldn’t say any lack a soul. And my sister ‘n law’s got twenty twenty vision.  So there’s your theory right out the window, mate.”

John chuckled.  He’d gotten to know the barman—and most of the barmaids—quite well in the past couple of years.  They’d become almost like…well, perhaps not family.  Maybe the family that one would see once in awhile at a Christmas party—perhaps the similar feel lies within the copious amounts of alcohol involved in both settings.  But John liked them all, generally, and he and Vern had become friends. 

In fact, Vern had been the one around him when he’d bottomed out; that one night, where he’d stopped pouring John drinks after he began arguing with the beer taps.  Vern then allowed him to slump over onto the counter and sleep until closing, after which he’d been kind enough to lug John into the street, hail a cab, and repeatedly tap his forehead until he was awake enough to mumble his sister’s address.   

Vern plodded off to take an order, and John drank his beer slowly, surveying the pub.  It was a “regulars” pub, as he liked to call them.  Quite a few people were regulars; at least half.  The other half would either have to be like the regulars and find something charming enough about the pub to be worthwhile to them, or odds are they wouldn’t come back. 

John didn’t know any of the normal crowd by name, but he knew them on sight.  Sitting at one of the worn maple tables was the man in a tweed coat and matching hat, picking at some limp onion rolls with a perpetually gloomy air.  Across the room at another table was the couple that always seemed to bring their deck of cards and play cribbage, despite the noise.  There was the loud group of laughing men playing a never ending game of pool, the woman with the green coat and laptop who’s defining expression was frustration, the bloke with the red hair who had only recently began showing up again, the woman with poorly dyed black hair who seemed to have a different man every night…there were more, many more, but John chose this as his cue to turn back around, since surveying a crowd for extended periods doesn’t exactly make a man look normal. 

John’s phone buzzed; he pulled it out of his jacket pocket and checked the text.  Greg.  _Fancy a pint later in the week?  Tough case._

_Too bad.  Yeah, sure, I get off my shift at six on Friday.  You bringing anyone?_

_Might bring the wife.  You bring Cheryl?_

_Probably not.  Had a bit of a tiff._

_Really?  Sorry mate._

_It’s fine.  Bring Janet, though.  I’ll sit by a girl here, she can stare drunkenly at her drink and I’ll pretend she’s my date._

_Ha._

_Alright, good luck with the case.  Just let me know when for this week._

_Ta. Will do._

Lestrade was another friend that John hadn’t expected to make.  Of course, they’d been friendly before, but in the past few years he’d gotten to know him better.  So well, in fact, that John was surprised that he was bringing his wife.  Not that John had anything against her, but he knew for a fact that they hadn’t been seeing eye to eye lately.  Maybe they’d worked whatever it was out.  Again.

John slipped his phone back in his pocket and stretched, glancing at the television screen above the bar.  The news; muted.  Then, as though it had been reading his mind, it flashed to a face he knew. 

John grinned, though it wasn’t an image he should really have been grinning at.  A crime scene, with a body lying on the ground, loosely covered by a white sheet.  It was just that Lestrade looked so completely tired of the day, and had not hesitated to shoot a “come on, really?” look at the camera. 

John looked round, still grinning, but toned it down a bit when he saw a man staring at him.  “Just a…just a friend.” he clarified quickly.  “On the telly.”

“Under the sheet?” the man asked, eyebrows raised in disbelief.  He was the man with the ginger hair and beard; a regular.  John hadn’t seen him in a few months, but he’d been in and out for years.  So it was possible that he’d witnessed John at some of his none too shining moments—perhaps even that one night he got utterly plastered—and was now watching him apparently laugh at his mate dead under a sheet.  This needed to be straightened out.

“No, no, the inspector.  Greg.”  Why it was necessary to tell him the name, John had no idea.  Awkwardly, he took a massive gulp of lager and promptly choked on it.

The man smiled politely, if not a little relieved.  He looked at the screen as well.  “Killed by gunshot to the head.”

“Yeah?”  John wiped his watering eyes.

“Yes.  Similar case where I come from.”

“Where’re you from?”  John asked, taking a much more careful sip of his pint.  Judging by the man's almost musical accent, he was from somewhere in Wales. 

“Dublin.”

John did a mental double take.  He never claimed to be a speech analyst, but he did know an Irish accent.  _All too well,_ he thought.  And this man did not have an Irish accent.

The man smiled again, presumably at John’s confused expression, and took his glasses off to clean with a napkin.  John wondered if it did any good, from what he saw they were scratched to the point that he was impressed the man could see at all.  “Not native, of course, I moved there about five years ago for work.”  His voice was light, almost nasally, and pleasant.  But John saw a bit of something in the man’s dark eyes before he put his glasses back on; they were flickering, almost flighty, as though the man was a little wary of the world around him. 

“What’s your line?”  John asked, trying to sound offhand and not overly pushy. 

“Inspector.”

“Ah.  So, when you mean you had a similar case…”

“One I worked on, yes.”  The man turned back to the front.  John stared at the side of his head, surprised at the sudden end of conversation. 

“I’m John.”  Might as well continue being friendly.  This man didn’t look the type to offer much without being prompted.

The man glanced back at him.  He seemed to debate for a long moment, as though deciding whether John was worth wasting his name on.  He looked forward again before answering.  “Steve.” 

“Pleasure.” 

The man—Steve—furrowed his brow, just a bit, as if wondering what exactly John was heading towards. 

John smiled again, and silently wondered if he was becoming creepy. 

The man took a drink of his pint, staring straight ahead. 

John turned forward as well, but kept up a string of subtle glances.  With attention no longer on him, John found himself studying the man out the corner of his eye, subconsciously analyzing him, a leftover habit he had yet to shake.  Left hand; ring, married.  Nothing spectacular, a simple gold band.  _Wonderful, John, you have advanced to the level that is usually occupied by five year olds.  What else._ His nails were immaculate; either he scrubbed them regularly, or he rarely used his hands for dirty jobs.  Although that pretty much went with him being an inspector, as they never seemed to paw through dirtying things like human remains without gloves on. 

His face, in profile, wasn’t anything astounding.  Large nose supporting thick glasses, the visible parts of skin not covered by beard or hair were ruddy, looking almost sunburned.  Late forties to early fifties, most likely, considering the slight greying of the beard.  Heavy build, fairly tall going by the bend of his legs, overall not the type John would fancy meeting in a dark alley. 

John moved his eyes down to the man’s clothes.  Simple slacks, heavy dark blue jacket.  It was dry, so either he’d come earlier in the day when the sky had been a forbidding but not yet storming grey, or he’d simply been here long enough for the jacket to dry.  The slacks, neatly pressed, suggested that he had probably just gotten off work.  But then, that didn’t seem right, going by what he said he’d have to have come from Ireland.  Come from Ireland just to go to Peggy’s?  No, not right at all.  Some would barely think it worthwhile to come from the other side of the street. 

_So he’s a snappy dresser, John.  Absolutely astounding._

John went back to the telly.  It was showing a commercial for painter’s tape.

“Another, John?”  Vern slapped his dishcloth on the counter, making John jump about a foot.

“Ah, sure, why not.”  He knocked back the last of his glass and slid it to him. 

“Anything exciting at the clinic today, Johnny?”  Vern stuck the empty glass under the counter and brought out a fresh one.

John took a moment to think.  “A small child was brought in wailing, the mother hysterical.  Turns out there was a small bug that he’d accidentally smooshed on his sleeve.  He wasn’t hurt at all, he just didn’t like bugs.”

“Ha!”  Vern slid the new beer to John, after proudly skimming off the head of foam with the back of a plastic knife.  “But nothing could top that woman that claimed she had worms in her skull, hey?”

“She was in a right state.  Nasty case of lice, though.”  John sipped at his beer. 

“I’ll say!  Soon I won’t have to worry ‘bout that meself.”  Vern rubbed his head and let out a bellow of laughter, throwing the knife over his shoulder into the sink.  A barmaid who was passing by shot him a dirty look as it whizzed past her head.

“You work in a clinic?” a Welsh accent asked curiously.

John turned to…what was it…Steve.  “I do, yes.  Across town.”

“Doctor?”

“Yeah.”

“Where did you train?” 

“St Bart’s.”

The man looked surprised.  “I have some colleagues who work there.  Do you know Bob Raymond?”

Considering he’d only spent two very brief stints there after returning from Afghanistan, John was lucky to remember the name of the receptionist.  “Not to my knowledge.  I don’t work there anymore, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh, too far from where you live?”

John shifted uncomfortably.  From freezing up after a simple name exchange, Steve was becoming positively chatty.  “No, it’s quite close, actually.  But a bit of bad blood there.  Got in a fight with some people.  I like working at a smaller place, anyway; more personal.  Less wait for the microwave.”

The man’s mouth twitched into a half grin.  He scratched his bearded chin absently.  “Shame, though, isn’t it?  Having to travel all the way across the city?”

John shrugged.  “A jobs a job.  What about you, then?  You said you worked in Ireland, yet you’re sitting in a London pub.  Bit of a commute.”

The man turned back to his drink.  He looked suddenly melancholy.  “I…I got into an argument a while back.  With my wife.  I thought I’d take a break, come to London, help with a few cases here, which I do once in awhile anyway.  Been here a couple of months.”

“Sorry to hear that.  I’m in a similar state, though I’m pretty sure mine’s permanent.”

He looked back up.  “I’m sorry.”

John waved it off with his hand.  “No, it’s fine.  It was right time.”

The man looked at him for a long moment, and John wondered if it sounded as though he was forcing himself to seem like he didn’t care, when in reality he cried himself to sleep every night.  He sincerely hoped not. 

“So…” John cleared his throat and waved his hand again, towards the TV.  “What’s the story here?  My friend had said it was a tough one.”

Steve glanced at the screen.  “From what information I gathered back home…it was a head shot, from a distance, with either a powerful pistol or a sniper rifle.  Far enough away to make the bullet difficult to track, given the winds we’ve been having.  It’s also far enough to be impersonal.”  He shrugged.  “That’s what they say, anyway.”

“So it was, what, a professional killing?  An assassination?”

“Could be.  Given the far shot and the accuracy, it would have been quite the professional.”

John glanced at the screen again.  In the back of his mind, he felt the slightest tremor of excitement, of the old curiosity.  But then, of course, he snapped back to Earth; he wasn’t going to be able to help on this one, on any one.  Not anymore.

Steve drank the last of his beer.  “I was going to take a look at the crime scene.  Similar one as at home, and from what I heard this man was Irish.”

“The dead man?”

“Yes.”

“Huh…”  John glanced at the screen again; detergent.  Then back to the news.  It started giving a recap on the case.  This time, John recognised more then a stressed Lestrade.  “Right on Gloucester, that’s not far from where I live!” 

He hadn’t been expecting an answer; he was half talking to himself, after all.  But Steve looked up in the act of pulling on his gloves.  “Not far from here, either.  In answer to your question on why I’m in this London pub, it’s because I was passing time before heading to the scene.” He slid the stool back and stood. 

“What, right now?”  John glanced outside, surprised; it was already dark out.  
“Yes, most of the crowd should be gone by now.  I don’t like working with an audience.  Did you walk here?”

John laughed.  “Not much of a walker at the best of times, but on a night like this?  I took a cab.”  John glanced outside, at the people walking fast, collars put up and hands tightening jackets and scarves.  No longer sleeting, but still below zero with an umbrella snatching wind.  _Might as well._ “You know, if you’re heading to Gloucester anyway, did you want to share a cab?”

Steve looked up.  “We’re going to different places.”

“Yes, well, I suppose I could stop, say hi to my friend before I go.”  Maybe take a peek at the scene.  John had to admit that he couldn’t quash all his curiosity. 

“Well, I suppose that’s sensible,” he said, sniffing.   “You ever been on a crime scene?”

John blinked and stared up at Steve, who was busy zipping up the jacket to his chin.  “I did help on a couple of them, years ago.”

“Really?” he said, sounding surprised.  “Work with the victims?”

“Not so much of the doctoring.  I actually helped with the investigation.”  “Helped” might have been a tad of an exaggeration, but John figured what Steve didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, and certainly wouldn’t hurt his own impression.

“Is that right?”  Steve smiled, and threw a few quid on the counter.  “In that case, you could probably look around the scene before you go.”

“Is that okay?”  John asked, startled. 

“Well, I’m assuming.  You’re a doctor, you’ve worked at scenes before, and friends with the Detective Inspector.  As long as you don’t step on evidence or spill coffee on the body, it’ll be fine.  And I might need someone to show me around this part of London.”   

 


	2. Chapter 2

 They exited the pub, stepping into the dark London evening.  The wind swirled up and attacked exposed skin; John shivered, drawing his hands up in his sleeves and hunching his shoulders, trying to keep the biting cold off his neck.  Steve didn’t seem bothered, or at least didn’t show it.  John supposed that kind of behaviour was part and parcel with growing a beard. 

Steve raised a hand, and a cab glided smoothly to the curb.  For a second they both stood, motionless, before Steve gave John a strange look, as if asking why he was simply standing there.  John huffed a bit before he clambered in; this was what Sherlock usually did, under the excuse of his height making it more difficult for him.  _That’s bollocks and you know it, Sherlock!  It’s simple science, John._ John grinned, then stopped after Steve gave him another questioning look.  John quickly focused out the window on the building opposite.

Steve slammed the door shut and called the address to the cabbie.  Chewing something, the cabbie nodded and mumbled a few indecipherable words before putting the cab in gear.

John gazed out the window, watching the blur of dull, textureless color that rushed by.  Steve was quiet, perhaps looking out as well.  The silence grew as the seconds went by, becoming increasingly uncomfortable.  John started tapping the armrest with a finger, then realised it was absolutely the loudest sound in the car and stopped.  After what was probably a full three minutes John turned towards Steve and cleared his throat.  “So…where are you staying in London?”

Steve, in fact, hadn’t been looking out the window; he had been scrolling through his phone, and didn’t look up when he answered John’s question.  “I’m staying at my sister’s.  Where do you live?”

Oh, so this was going to be one of those back and forth conversations.  “Baker Street.”

“Baker Street?  That is quite close to the scene.  Afford the rent on your own?”

John shifted in his seat.  “No, I live with someone.”

“A woman?”

“What?  No, not a woman!  A flatmate.  His name’s Paul.” 

“You don’t like him?”  Steve put away his phone and leaned back, peering at John through the foggy, square lenses of his glasses.

“When did I say that?”  John asked, a tad on the defensive.

“Well, you’re face was hardly cheerful when you mentioned his name.  It’s easy to dislike a flatmate, if they’re difficult to live with.”

John bristled.  Steve was perceptive, he could give him that.  Of course, John could simply have an extremely readable face.  It was true; he didn’t exactly feel fond of Paul.  He’d moved in about three months prior, the seventh of flatmates that John had gone through in the past two years.  John usually put in ads for collage students studying abroad; at the very least it guaranteed that they wouldn’t stay for long.  A few months were usually the maximum.  Paul was from Belgium, and was quiet, studious and reliably tidy.  He paid his rent on time, washed his mugs the very moment he finished his tea, and spent about ninety percent of the day in his bedroom.  He was, unequivocally, the easiest brand of person to flatshare with.  And yet, somehow he still managed to be phenomenally irritating.  

“No, he’s easy to live with.”  John said slowly.  “A nice bloke.”

Steve tilted his head.  “Then why—“

“Boring as all get out.”  John interrupted.  “But nice.”

“That bothers you?” 

“It…he always seems like he’s living his life on a schedule.  At ten, he boils water.  Eleven until five, he studies.  Five, he eats something canned, then he studies some more.  Six, calls his mum on the phone, talks about his day, though I don’t know why he wouldn’t just play a recording of his voice repeating the same damn conversation into the phone, it would save him time.”  John shook his head.  “It’s like living with a clock.”

“A clock.”

“Yes.  A clock that pays rent.”

The cabbie spoke up.  “I once ‘ad a flatmate who thought ‘e could pay rent with a clock.  A grandfather clock.  Said it was worth twice the amount, all I ‘ad to do was fix it and sell it.  I told ‘im I’d clock _‘im_ if he di’nt get the gawdawful thing out my ‘ouse and my rent to me in the next hour.  ‘E’s livin’ with ‘is mum now.”

There was a brief and somewhat shocked silence.  “Did he pay his rent?”  Steve finally asked, after visibly struggling to think up a proper response to the perplexing narrative.

“Nah.  Never got the clock, neither, and I swear, I never—“

“Oh!  We’re here, aren’t we?”  Steve said jovially. 

The cab pulled over to the curb.  Steve made to get out of the cab, before remembering to reach in his pocket for his wallet.

“Don’t worry about it, Steve.”  John searched for his own wallet.  He felt like he should treat the cab ride; after all, the man was taking him along to his work after talking to John once.  At a pub, no less. 

The cab had dropped them near a car park.  They set off for it, walking quickly.  John could see the familiar activity of a crime scene near the front of the lot; he recognised the buildings behind from the newscast.  The crime scene itself was a mass of police cars, evidence markers, and tape that was flapping wildly in the stiff wind.  A small wall-less marquee protected the area—though the snow had, by then, stopped falling—and was lit by bright spotlights set up along the sides and the headlights of the cars, since the sun had gone down hours before.  Investigators milled about, scarves wrapped tightly and coffee cups clutched in shivering grips, while pedestrians passing by slowed down every so often to gape at the sudden grim change to the normally bland scenery. 

Peering past a few detectives as they approached, John could see the victim, lying on the blacktop in a small dark pool.  No longer covered in the sheet, John saw that it was a small man, on his back, in jeans and a dark coat. 

“John!”  Lestrade looked surprised, striding over from where he’d been talking with another officer.  “What’re you doing here?”

“Was around.  Thought I’d say hey.”  John didn’t want to elaborate, but he still needed an explanation for the man silently standing a few paces back, surveying the crime scene with interest.  John nodded in his direction.  “Met Steve here, and we shared a cab.  He’s an Inspector from Dublin.”

“Oh?”  Lestrade smiled and held out his hand over the police tape.  “Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector.  You working on this case then?”

“Hmm?  Oh, yes.”  They shook hands, after Steve had flashed his badge to another inspector, who had been eying him suspiciously.  “This mans Irish, I believe?”

“Samuel O’Neil.  Shot to the head.”

“No need to update, I received information already from the station.”  Steve reached inside a pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded sheaf of paper, a stamped police insignia visible in the corner.  “Real estate agent.  Shot to the head, most likely a rifle with scope, long distance.  The best guess we have is a hired gun.”

“Really?”  Lestrade said with interest, crossing his arms.

“Yes.”  Steve flipped through the papers.  “A few idle threats from different people over the past few years, but none particularly distinctive.  The man had a habit of doing more then paperwork with his client’s wives, despite having one of his own.”

“Oh, well.”  Lestrade glanced back at the body.  “That narrows it down a bit.”  His phone rang, and he took it out and glanced at it.  He looked relieved.  “Finally.  The shot came from northwest, from what we could gather.  So I suppose it could have been from one of those buildings.”  He nodded to a row of apartment buildings across the lot.  “I’ll have some men search them top to bottom.”

“Would we be able to look at the body?”  Steve asked, looking up from his papers. John started.  _We?_ He glanced at Steve.

Lestrade looked just as surprised as John felt.  “Well…”  He looked at John, then the body.  “Actually, John, I _did_ need to ask you something about the bullet wound.  My ballistics investigator’s off heaving in a bucket, and he’s apparently too far gone to check his damn phone.  I figured your background gave you experience in that type of thing.”

John laughed.  “Army surgeon.  So, yeah, a little.”

“Not normal protocol, but then, when did I ever follow that.  Think you could make a rough guess at the calibre?”

“Well, I could try.”

“See, you’re already making more effort then my officer.  I bet he turned off his phone, the bastard.”  Lestrade lifted up the tape so they could pass under. 

They approached the body, and simultaneously knelt at its side.  Lestrade handed Steve a pair of gloves, which he pulled on without looking, after taking off his own and stuffing them in a pocket.  John didn’t receive any for himself, but he expected as much; him passing the tape was already pushing it.  He contented himself with leaning over the man’s head, studying the wound, and under his request having Steve turn it on its side so John could see the exit.  It was massive compared to the entrance.  “I can’t be positive on it, Greg.  It was a far shot.  Forty, maybe?  Defiantly up there.”  

“Guess it’d have to be.”  Lestrade’s phone rang again, he walked away to answer it. 

“You were an army surgeon?”  Steve asked curiously, twisting the head back to its normal position.

“Yes, I was.”

“Iraq?”

“Afghanistan.”

“Oh.”  Steve was now staring intently at the wound on the man's head; small, precisely in the center of the forehead, skin burnt dark around the edges.  “Detective Inspector?”

Lestrade clicked off his phone and walked over.  “Greg, please.  Did you find something?”

“Did you have a chance to gauge the angle of the wound?” 

“No, we didn’t, not yet.”  Lestrade seemed surprised.  “Usually that’s left for the coroner.”

“Well, you should really do it as soon as possible, considering your men are going to be searching the building in a moment.  Every minute counts, regardless of how long it’s been.”  He turned to John.  “Do you have a pencil?”

“A pencil?”

“Or anything of the same shape, really.”

“I have a pen.”  Lestrade handed him a blue ballpoint.  “You aren’t going to stick that—“

Steve promptly stuck it directly in the bullet wound.  Lestrade sighed. 

Steve pushed the pen about halfway in.  It stuck out at an upward angle. Taking out his phone, he tapped on it for awhile, and John was confused until he suddenly held it to the man's head, and realised he’d downloaded a digital protractor.  “Detective…”  Steve paused.  “Greg.  Do you have another pen?”

Lestrade looked around, aghast.  “Don’t bloody well tell me you lost the other one inside the man's head!” 

“No, no, not at all.  I need it to calculate the trajectory.  I suppose I could use the one in the head, however…”

“Oh, no, here,” Lestrade quickly gave him another, red, pen.  Steve used his papers to write on for a few minutes, thick brows furrowed in concentration, and John supposed he was doing calculations that he himself had forgotten since year twelve Physics.  John got to his feet, still looking down on the body, and shook his head.  Married…though he didn’t seem to keen on the idea.  He could possibly have children, though.  John turned to Lestrade, who was just putting away his phone.  “Did the man have family, at all?  I mean, besides the wife?” 

“Eh?  Oh, yeah, I think he had a toddler.”  Lestrade looked tired.  “Somehow the kids are always the ones left with the short end.”

John nodded.  He remembered his own childhood; his parents’ constant battle, with him and his sister doing their damndest to keep smiling through tense meals at the dinner table.  Of course, his mother never reached the point of placing a hit on her husband, but John wouldn’t be surprised if she’d thought of it at times. 

“The height, Greg?”  Steve spoke up, crossing out a figure. 

“Of the man?  Five seven.”

“And the distance from the apartment building?”

Lestrade had to make a call to his men.  “Thirty six metres, give or take.”

He went back to scribbling, crossing out, and more scribbling.  John checked his phone for the time.  Nearly nine.  To be completely honest, he was a bit saddened when he saw no message or missed call from Cheryl.  _Must be really over, then._ He put away his phone. 

A few minutes later, Steve called Lestrade back.  “The sniper would have had to have been between the third and sixth floor, most likely the fourth or fifth.”

Lestrade relayed the information back to his team.  Hanging up the phone, he gave a tired smile to Steve.  “They’re checking now.  Thanks for that, afraid I wouldn’t’ve been able to calculate that myself with a gun to my head.” He paused.  “Not trying to be funny.”

“Don’t worry, Greg, I probably forgot how to do it the moment I left high school.”  John thought a bit, then chucked.  “Probably the moment I left the class.”

Steve got quite a worried look on his face, and glanced back down at his calculations.  “I apologise if I’ve made you two feel inadequate in any way.” 

Lestrade snorted.  “Yeah.  Don’t worry, we’re used to being made feel like idiots.  At least…”  He ran a hand through his greying hair and sighed again.  “Anyway, the paramedics’ll be coming to pick the body up soon.  Listen, Inspector—“

“Steve Daniel.  Steve.”  He stood, dusting off the knees of his trousers. 

“Steve.  Call me if you have any more info on O’Neil, or anything else.”  Lestrade searched his pockets, looking more and more frustrated until he finally pulled out a linty business card.  He handed it to Steve, who took it, used the pen to scrawl the information down on his papers, then handed both the pen and the card back to Lestrade.  “No point wasting them on me; doesn’t seem you can really afford to spare them.”

“Oh, cheers.  Don’t supposed I could have those papers, then?”

Steve tucked the sheaf back in an inner pocket and grinned, momentarily deviating from his professional air.  “My only copies, Greg.  Tomorrow I can send the information over, if you wish.  Well, John,” he said, turning to him.  “I’m heading back to my sister’s.”

“Oh!  Alright, then.”  He held out his hand, and Steve pulled off his gloves before shaking it.  “Interesting case?” John indicated the crime scene with a jerk of his head. 

Steve gave him a strange look, and John wondered if he was sounding interested to a degree that was worrying this man.  He attempted to look more sombre.  “Interesting enough.”  Steve let go and took out his mobile.  “Oh heavens, look at the time.”

“Past your bedtime?”  John inquired, before he could stop himself.

“My sister gets her knickers twisted if I’m late coming in.  Says I wake her up.”

“Ah.  Hey, listen, before you go,” John said quickly, as Steve turned to leave.  “Don’t you think we should exchange numbers?”  As soon as the words left his lips, he was struck by a vivid image of a lanky teen with unfortunate skin, stuttering the same brand of question to a bored girl.  _Oh, fantastic._

Steve looked ever so slightly suspicious, and he tilted his head to the side as he studied John closely, as if expecting him to fling out a feathered boa and burst into a Broadway song _._ “I mean,” John added hastily, “In case one of us thinks of something?  To do with the case?”  _Every bloody time…_

“Well, I suppose.  Might be a good idea.”  Steve started typing on his phone, though he still gave John a doubtful glance every once in awhile. 

As soon as he relayed his number Steve hurriedly left, giving a wave to John that immediately turned into a wave for a cab as he reached the curb.  John gave a half-hearted wave back, which he realised was pretty much pointless as he saw the cab tear away. 

He sighed, though not from exasperation.  If he was honest with himself, he would admit he felt almost refreshed, standing once more in the heart of excitement, even just for the day.  A nice reprieve from the white fiberboard ceilings and paper covered beds at the clinic.    
_He’s particular, Steve._ John thought, finishing imputing his name in his phone.  _Nothing abrasive or necessarily dislikeable, but he certainly isn’t neck deep in pleasantries and small talk._ Though, living in Britain…he supposed that was a bit of a reprieve in itself. 

John scrolled through his contacts, just to make sure he actually saved the information correctly and didn’t misspell it Stebe or something.  Yes, all in order.  Though just when he was about to exit the contacts, he noticed the one just above Steve’s.  Quickly he turned off the display, putting the phone back in his pocket, and took one last glance at the half packed up scene before heading to the street to hail a cab. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey dudes! Just a quick note to say that if I got any police/crime scene/body/cab/grandfather clock related information wrong, I’m truly sorry, I am not an expert in any of those things. I am also sorry in advance for any mistakes I make in the future. Thanks for reading, people! You’re all awesome.


	3. Chapter 3

John pulled the apartment key from his pocket and stuck it in the keyhole.  The years of use seemed to be taking its toll on the locking mechanism, as it was taking longer and longer to jimmy it into precisely the right angle for it to work as the days went by.  It wasn’t bad that night, only needing a few seconds of wrenching and a couple of muttered curses before the lock clicked and the door meekly opened.  John fumbled with the light switch, clicking it, and the chilly flat lit up into view.

He didn’t stay long in the living room; after a few checks to make sure nothing had been stolen or destroyed somehow when he was gone, he made for his room.  He’d spent the last couple of nights at Cheryl’s, and after last night’s argument taking up quite a chunk of sleeping time he was too bloody tired to do much else other then go to bed.  It wasn’t as though there was an abundance of things to do anyway; he’d finished the book he’d been reading and he knew for a fact (which was quite sad) that there was nothing on the telly that night.  Chucking his keys into a bowl that sat on a table, he headed for the stairs, kicking off his shoes on the way. 

When he pulled back his bed sheet, he saw a note resting on his pillow.

_John, dear.  I do hope you had fun at Cheryl’s.  Just letting you know (in case you we’re worrying on their disappearance) that I picked up the rent checks this morning when I dropped off a meatloaf, which is now in the fridge.  I let Paul know that he’s welcome to some of it, though he informed me that he’d rather not eat meat.  He’s a strange boy._

John smiled and put the note on his endtable.  From what he’s seen, Paul didn’t eat anything other then canned beans and instant oatmeal.  John remembered offering him a liquorice twist at one point and him replying with a solemn shake of the head and some mumblings about red dye and chemicals.  At that point it took John great effort to refrain from asking the boy if he’d actually peeked at the ingredients on one of the instant oatmeal packets that made up half of his diet. 

This didn’t bother John, though; more room in the fridge for him.  It did, however, make the microwave a constant roulette, even more then when John still worked at Bart’s.  Paul seemed to enjoy his food molten, given he set the clock at about five minutes for each meal. 

 _Though I suppose it’ll never be the worst thing I’ve found in the microwave._ John thought wryly, shutting off the light.  _Well, on an aesthetic level, anyway._

 

John woke the next morning blinking at the weak sun peeking through the shades of his window.  It was a friendly sight, if only temporary.  It was enough to set John humming as he pulled on a jumper.  His shift didn’t start until twelve, which gave him plenty of time to have some toast and a few cups of tea. 

When he wandered into the kitchen a bit later, he saw Paul turning off the whistling kettle and the microwave already in full rotation.  John glanced at the clock; ten.  Right on bloody schedule.

“Did you get bread?”  John asked, opening the breadbox and peering in.  Empty, save for a miserable-looking bag of crumbs. 

“Ah, no…I don’t remember you telling me?”  Paul said, confused. 

“No worries.”  John actually wasn’t sure himself if he’d said anything either.  He closed the breadbox.  There went the toast, then.  “Do we have milk?”  He took out a mug from the cupboard and popped a teabag in, then reached for the kettle. 

“I just put it back in the fridge.”  Paul wiped his arm across the thick framed glasses he was wearing to get rid of the steam. John knew for a fact that he had twenty twenty vision, though for some reason the boy wore glasses regardless.  John supposed that it was a fad, and didn’t bother asking.  Though he couldn’t quite banish the mental image of a future London, where perfectly healthy people sported bright coloured hearing aids or trundled around in sparkly neon wheelchairs.

John opened the fridge, and there it was; soy milk that Paul insisted on investing in, at a level in the carton that John was positive it never deviated from.  He wondered if Paul kept a stash of milk in a contraband minifridge and used it to keep the main milk at a precise amount, for the sole reason of keeping everything exactly the same every day. 

Paul opened the door to the microwave and pulled out his bowl of porridge, which was bubbling in a slightly sinister manner.  With an expression of mild approval, he simply plopped a spoon in the bowl and headed off to his room, with a mug of extremely milky tea in his other hand.  “Do you want me to get bread later?” he called over his shoulder as he went.

“I suppose, if it isn’t any trouble.”  John replied duly, sighing and taking the Exactly The Same Milk out of the fridge. 

“Okay.”  He left, and John heard his door close. 

John took his tea and headed for the living room.  The bus would be around at eleven, so he grabbed the newspaper that Paul very kindly brought in and flopped down in his chair.  Shaking out the paper, he sipped at his tea as he read the headlines.

John saw the murder case on the second page.  _Real estate agent shot dead in car park…_ John skimmed it briefly.  There wasn’t anything remotely conclusive.  In fact, the article probably could have made do with just the title.  It looked to John like Lestrade and the rest of the Yard were keeping closed lips on this one.  It was probably best that the public were kept in the dark that a possible skilled assassin was currently active and working in the city, mostly because John had a feeling many people would be lining up to hire. 

John drained the last cold drops of his tea and threw the newspaper across another armchair.  He stretched and groaned; he’d agreed to work overtime that day, filling in for a colleague out suddenly with the flu, since no one else seemed to be available. _You’d think a workplace full of doctors could have noticed the signs of a flu before making irreversible plans,_ John thought dryly as he grabbed his jacket on his way to the door. 

He stepped outside, locking the door behind him.  No longer bright; the sun had been veiled by a blanket of grey cloud, threatening flurries.  John stuffed his hands in his pockets and started towards the bus stop around the corner. 

He kept his eyes on the sidewalk, determined to avoid being a casualty of London’s ample population of lazy pet owners.  He was so intent on his path that he accidentally bumped into a man walking fast in the other direction.  “Sorry,” John said politely, looking up.  The man grunted, already on his way again after regaining his balance.  Without another thought John returned to his sidewalk examination, and to his idle contemplation on whether he should go for lunch at the new café that had opened near the clinic—

_CRACK_

There was the collective sound of shocked gasps and screams from the sidewalks, and John’s stomach jumped horribly, the flash of light still in his peripheral vision and the deafening sound ringing in his ears.  His mind whirled, and suddenly the drab greys of London disappeared; he was surrounded by brightness and a cacophony of noise, plumes of sand erupting around him, and he was kneeling in a hot trench, trying to keep out of sight while pressing a wad of gauze into a deep valley on a gasping man’s leg…then the moment passed and he was back on Baker Street, frozen—in every sense of the word—on the sidewalk.  He immediately began searching for the source of the flash and the sharp noise, a noise akin to the sound of a door slamming in an empty room, though he knew in his bones that it wasn’t something quite as innocent.  He was frantically scanning the halted pedestrians across the street when he heard a muffled thump behind him.  He whirled around.

A man, the man John instantly recognised as the one he’d brushed against moments before, had slumped to the ground.  Without a thought John ran to his side, his mind automatically switching into the set of his profession.  Kneeling on the hard pavement, John grabbed the man’s still shoulder and gingerly turned him from his side onto his back, John’s eyes immediately snapping to the forehead.

A rose of red and black was blossoming, with blood already trailing down the man’s immobile face in multiple rivulets.  The shot had hit in the precise centre of the forehead, a stunning parallel to the victim John had seen the night before.  “My god…”  John muttered.  Knowing full well there wasn’t much of a point, John put two fingers on the neck regardless, mostly for the benefit of the growing crowd of agape civilians.  Often the public only accepted death with the announcement of absent pulse, even if the body had been shot multiple times or cut in two.

Even with the din of phones being unlocked and dialled coming from all sides, John stood and took out his own phone.  He called Lestrade’s mobile; better he heard from him rather then a garbled account mashed together from a group of hysterical bystanders. 

Lestrade uttered more then a few words not permissible in front of the elderly when John explained the situation.  After barking muffled instructions for about ten minutes he advised John to stay with the body, and to do his best on keeping the public’s hands and cameras off.  John took one look at the sea of forward facing mobile phones and gently told him that the second instruction had been failed before it was uttered.  A few more choice words, then just _well stay put, anyway._

John smiled as he hung up, then felt his grin fade when he looked back at the dead man.  _Well…this wasn’t exactly on my agenda today._ With this in mind, John made a quick call to the clinic, explaining that he was, unfortunately, unable to come to work that day.  Even with his excuse of witnessing a murder, the doctor who had picked up still managed to sound peeved.  John felt a bit nettled at that point—he knew that they were understaffed that day, but unless the man on the pavement suddenly sat up, dusted himself off and exclaimed “my word, that sure got my juices flowing!”, there wasn’t much of a chance that John was coming in any time soon. 

 

“Was there anything particularly notable about the man when you saw him?”  Donovan asked.  Or sighed.  Sighed was the better word. 

John shrugged.  He knew, in the back of his mind, that it’d tick her off.  “He was in a hurry.  He also didn’t apologise for bumping into me.”

“Didn’t you say that _you_ bumped into _him?”_

“It was a mutual bump.”  John realised how that sounded far too late.  Donovan raised her eyebrows.  He hastily continued on, “I mean, even if it wasn’t, it’s still customary to say a quick sorry.”

“So you bumped into him and he did nothing?”

“Well, he made a noise, like a grunt.  Then he walked off, quickly.  Like he was in a hurry, as I said before.”

Donovan made a few notes on her tiny pad.  “And when you heard the shot; what did it sound like?”

“Defiantly a rifle.  No pistol I know could have made that noise.”  John motioned towards the buildings on the opposite side of the road.  “From that building.  Middle floor, more or less, the flash was in the corner of my eye so I can’t be too positive.”

She glanced at where he was pointing, then made one more note.  “Alright, thanks.”  She strode off quickly.

A cab stopped just outside the hastily put up police tape.  From it emerged Steve, who walked purposely towards the tape and ducked under without hesitation.  John waved, and Steve approached him, his head swivelling around, taking in the scene.

“Well, John, I admit I wasn’t expecting us to meet again so soon.” he said, glancing down at the body behind John.

“That makes two of us.” John said, crossing his arms across his chest in an attempt to warm up.  After some thought, he had texted Steve after calling the clinic.   _Hey, Steve, it’s John, from the pub.  There’s been another shooting, on Baker Street.  I swear this has nothing to do with me._

John relayed the information as best he could, considering there wasn’t much he knew.  Steve wrote everything down, except unlike Donovan he actually looked like he was paying close attention.  “Was there anyone that you remember even before the shooting?  Across the street, entering the building?”

“No, I don’t…I was staring at the sidewalk.”  John said, sheepishly.

“Ah.”  Steve put his notes away.  He looked across the street, at the row of buildings. 

“John!”  John turned to see Lestrade hurrying towards him.  He put a hand on the doctor’s shoulder.  “Sorry I was tetchy the phone.  You alright?”

“Fine.”  He shrugged.  “I’ve seen worse.”

Lestrade looked at him strangely, and only then did John realise what he’d said.  His mind suddenly flashed to another day; he shook his head to get rid of the image.  Glancing down at the body, John felt his stomach clench; who was this mans family, his friends?  “Are your men searching the buildings, Greg?”

“Working on it, yeah.”  It was only then that Lestrade noticed Steve, who’d wandered a few metres away, studying the body and once more scribbling on his papers.  “Ah…hey, Steve!”  He shot John a questioning glance. 

“I texted him.”  John explained, feeling a bit guilty.

“Hello, Greg.”  Steve said, walking towards them and looking up from his notes.  He smiled, then frowned, looking at his notes again.  “The sniper seems to be getting more confident.  Or more jobs.” 

“Detective Inspector,” a man in a plastic forensic suit rushed towards them, “the victim’s wallet.  We’re running the name now.”  He handed Lestrade a brown, beat up leather wallet. 

“Thanks.”  Lestrade flipped it open, holding up to the weak light managing to shine through the cloud.  “Nicolas Green…thirty nine.”

“Not married,” John pointed out, nodding towards the man’s ringless hand. 

“And not from Ireland.  At least, his driver’s licence says he’s from London, so there goes that connection.” Lestrade closed the wallet.

“So, what does that leave?”  John asked.  “It doesn’t seem that they’re connected personally—“

“So it’s defiantly a hired gun.”  Steve finished, speaking up after a few minutes of silence.  “Somehow this man…or woman,” he added quickly, “is offering his services to the public.”

“We just don’t know how.” Lestrade put in.  “It’s not exactly like they can put an ad in the paper.” 

“I’ve seen this before.”  Steve said quietly. 

“Have you?”  Lestrade asked.

“Yes.  In Dublin.  People were falling to the ground with no apparent cause or connection.  You might have read it in the papers.”

“Might have, yeah,” Lestrade said, narrowing his eyes as he tried to remember. 

“Of course, the headlines would have been bigger if we’d solved the case.”  John saw Steve’s eyes flicker with frustration behind the fogged lenses.  “We never caught the gunman.”

John felt his mind slip again; a dancing red light on cloth.  He shook himself back to the present.  “So…Steve, you’re thinking this is the same gunman?”

“I’d be lying if I said it hasn’t crossed my mind.  What I’m wondering now is why he’d come here…”

“Well, _maybe_ because you lot were onto him back in Ireland?”  An arrogant and nasally voice said from behind.  John didn’t even need to turn.

“Oh, hello.”  Steve said, smiling at Anderson, who was giving him a suspicious look that he wasn’t even attempting to hide as he approached them.

“Who are you?”  Anderson asked, crossing his arms and making an obvious attempt to look intimidating.  “This is a closed crime scene.”

“Anderson…”  Lestrade said tiredly.

“My name is Steve Daniel.  I’m an inspector from Dublin, and I’m helping on this case because it shows similarities to one that I’ve worked on.”  Steve gestured towards the body.  “In answer to your statement earlier, I don’t believe that a man attempting to start fresh would immediately begin his new life with a couple of murders.”

“Some men are crazy.”  Anderson retorted.

“Well, for simplicity’s sake, let’s assume for now that there’s a different reason.”  Steve replied pleasantly. 

“Anderson, did you get any information on the man?”  Lestrade wisely interjected.

“What?  Oh, yeah…”  Anderson took out a notebook.  “Seems he worked in construction.  A supervisor.  No police record.”

“Any enemies?”  Steve asked.  Anderson gave him a peeved glance.  “My apologies,” Steve said quickly.  “Greg, could you please ask if the man had enemies?” 

John grinned at the look on Anderson’s face; as though he’d tasted something that was a little too salty.  “Anderson, we don’t have time for this.  Did the man have enemies?” Lestrade asked impatiently.

“Well, _no.”_ Anderson replied moodily.  “No one specific.  But, no one seemed to have anything good to say about him.”

“Well, that doesn’t get us too far, given that could be said about plenty of people.”  Steve said, giving Anderson a friendly smile.  John did his best to turn his laugh into a cough. 

“Alright.” Lestrade said, evidentially sensing Anderson’s blood pressure.  “Well, try to dig up some info on the people who knew him best, see what you can find.”

“I’ll get on it.”  Anderson replied sullenly, closing his notebook and giving Steve one more look of distrust before walking away. 

“Charming.”  Steve remarked, watching him go. “Is he always like that?”

“Usually.”  John said.  “Sometimes he doesn’t talk, though.  It’s a treat when that happens.”

“Okay, okay.”  Lestrade said, holding up his hands. 

“Why is Anderson even working this case, Greg?” John asked.  “I thought he worked Linguistics.”

“Yeah, well, we’re a bit short staffed lately.”  Lestrade replied wearily.  “People keep calling in with the flu.”

“Yeah, that’s been going around.”

“You should also find out where this man was in such a hurry to get to, in case it produces any leads.”  Steve spoke up, nodding to the body and adjusting his glasses.

“Well, I suppose that’s what Anderson will find out, if he’s successful.”  Lestrade said, rocking back on his heel.  “Anything past John’s place is a possibility.”

“Yes, but we know he wasn’t heading anywhere in walking distance.”  Steve said, a note of impatience in his voice.

“Wait…we do?”  John said, confused.  Suddenly, he was hit with a strong sense of déjà vu. 

Steve glanced from him to Lestrade.  “Didn’t I tell you?  I overheard some witnesses talking about how the man was hailing a cab when it happened.”

“Oh, really?”  Lestrade said, interested. 

“Yes.  Oh, of course!”  Steve exclaimed, clearly understanding something.  “That would also explain how the shot is on the forehead.” 

“That’s right…it would have been on the side of his head if he’d been walking.”  John said, understanding. 

“Did the witness say anything else?”  Lestrade asked. 

“Yes, now that you mention it. I’m surprised Anderson didn’t say anything; I think he was the one talking to them.  One old woman said that he’d come out of one of the buildings over there,” Steve pointed to a row not far beyond John’s flat.  “That would explain why he didn’t hail a cab earlier.”

“Anyone on this street would know that where he was is the best place to hail a cab.”  John added.  “Maybe he lives around here.” 

“His address isn’t on Baker Street,” Lestrade said, looking through the wallet again.

“Well, he must have been visiting one of the other flats, or one of the office buildings.  Either way it’s something to go on, so you can start asking around this area.”  Steve said. 

Lestrade looked a little miffed; John supposed it must be something to be given instructions by a man who wasn’t even technically on the case.  Especially orders that he was right to follow.  “Right.  Okay.”  Lestrade moved away, motioning to some of his men. 

It had started to snow by then; little flakes that melted the moment they hit the ground.  John wondered silently if he was allowed to leave.  He’d given all that he could dredge up, and to be honest he didn’t fancy standing out in the snow.  He was cold enough as it was.  “Ah, Greg?”  John raised his hand and tried to get his attention.

“I don’t believe you need to stay any longer, John.”  Steve said, taking a picture of the body with his phone. 

“Are you?”  John asked, annoyed. 

“No, I need to contact the station, do some research.  This new body throws a bit of a monkey wrench into the case.”  His lip twitched, as though he was annoyed as well.  “It complicates things.”

“Oh…well…I suppose I’ll go then.”  John glanced back at 221.  Then he shook his head; _no, John, you’re going to work.  It isn’t like there’s a heap of excitement in staying home anyway._   _Just telly and tea with some Exactly The Same Milk._

John looked about, then headed towards the bus stop, stamping his feet to get the feeling back in his toes.  He called a goodbye to Lestrade, who waved, and one to Steve, who said nothing.  He just continued to search his phone, and gave a tiny jerk of his head to indicate that he’d heard him, but didn’t particularly care.  John made a face as he turned and continued walking, ducking under the tape.  _Prat._

“Have a good night, Dr Watson.  Try not to witness any murders before you get home, eh?”  The interns chuckled. The one who’d called out was the self proclaimed funny one, and invariably followed each of his jokes with a loud _nieh!_ of laughter and two hard claps of his hands.  John smiled an automatic smile as he shrugged on his coat while the intern _nieh_ ed and clapped. 

“Randal, don’t be an arse.”  Emily scolded as she walked by.

“What?  All I said was—“

“Goodnight, Randal.  Night, Em.”  John said, giving her a real smile before heading for the door.  “Night, Mary,” he added to the receptionist as he walked past her desk.  She smiled and waved, popping a scotch mint in her mouth before continuing her typing.

It was still snowing lightly when John stepped outside, with two wet inches on the pavement.  John shivered as he walked quickly towards the bus stop.  He kept meaning to buy a new winter jacket.  But whenever he took a look at the prices at the stores he would begin mentally tabulating how much the same amount of money would last for food and expenses, eventually throwing up his hands mentally and thinking _sod it._ Then he’d go get Chinese.  Even then, as he was thinking of a warm coat, he was wondering if he’d actually rather have Chinese instead.  He never did get to have lunch at the new café. 

He made a call to Paul, and asked him if he’d like anything from the Chinese place.  He gravely answered that he supposed he’d have a small vegetable chow mien.  Later that night he and John sat at the table eating in silence, save for the soft pattering of flakes on the windows. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Just wanted to give a virtual high five to everyone still reading and leaving Kudos and stuff--I know it's an older fic, so thanks a bunch c: You rock!

_Might be bringing along some people from the yard instead._

John put down the jacket he'd just picked up to send Lestrade a text back. _That's fine._

_Anderson and Donovan might be there._

_Ah…that's okay._

_Sorry. It turned into a kind of work thing, a chance to talk about the case. You don't have to come if you don't want to._

_It's alright, I'm already on my way out._

It took John a couple of tries to get a cab. The one that did finally pick him up smelled strongly of old clothes and even older food, and John refrained from breathing through his nose the entire way.

"'ear you go," the cabbie said cheerfully, pulling up in front of Peggy's. John paid him with a fiver and left as quick as he could, waving away the change.

John could see when he walked in the pub that he was the first to arrive. Heading to his favourite stool, he sat, and looked around for Vern.

An unfamiliar female barmaid walked over. "What'll it be?" she asked, scratching the side of her painted mouth.

"Vern off tonight?" John asked, giving her a smile.

She gave him a look that said _don't even try._ "Yeah. You want anything?" Her tone was borderline threatening.

"Just a pint." John said quickly.

John heard the door open and felt the draft. He turned, and was surprised to see Steve enter the pub. "Steve, hey!"

Steve looked just as surprised. "Hello!" He walked over, unzipping his blue jacket. "Waiting for your friends?"

"Yeah. You were told, then?"

"No…but I overheard Greg mentioning it the other day at the scene. I didn't know you were meeting tonight, though."

"Ah, sorry about that." John gestured to the stool next to him. "Didn't know it was going to be more then him and his wife until tonight, actually."

"It's fine. I don't usually come here other then to think." Steve ordered a lager.

The door opened again, and John saw that it was them this time. "Hey, over here." He waved to them; Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, and two others that John knew on sight but couldn't place their names.

"Steve." Lestrade shook his hand as he sat down. "John told you then, hey?"

"No." Steve said, taking a drink. "Just coincidental."

"Ah." Lestrade ordered a round of drinks. "Well, we should really get a table then."

"I wasn't going to stay too long, actually." Steve said.

"We were going to get one anyway." Anderson snapped.

 _Well, this is going to turn out well, I just know it,_ John thought.

 

They all sat, somewhat cramped, at one of the round wood tables. "Is the food here any good?" one of the unfamiliar Yarders asked uncertainly, shooting a glance at a rather tired-looking salad on a table nearby.

"I'd stick to the drinks." Lestrade advised.

"So how's the case been?" John asked, taking a drink of his beer.

"As good as it can be when we've gotten nowhere." Lestrade said with a sigh. "No more hits, but no more information either. Whoever it is has experience covering his tracks."

"No luck on finding any enemies?" John asked, looking from one to another. "There has to be some progress there."

"No one's talking. Both of the victims had people who weren't too fond of them. The second one was a manager at a construction company and wasn't a pleasant boss, but I wouldn't peg any of the workers to have a killing streak. That kind of info usually comes up only when the other side caves. And so far the other side doesn't exist yet."

"At this rate we're basically waiting for another shot to fire." Donovan said glumly.

"Not a very nice method." John noted, realising this to be unnecessary a trifle too late.

"Well, unless you can think of one better, it's the only one we've got." Anderson said derisively. "Though, I suppose being on both scenes makes you an _expert_."

John, with admirable restraint, ignored this. On the other hand, Steve gave a little amused sniff at Anderson's words, obviously thinking them clever. John allowed himself an irritated glance in Steve's direction, which of course he didn't see.

"You know, its cases like these where…" Lestrade trailed off and cleared his throat. John stared determinedly into his drink, suddenly feeling cold, despite the stifling heat of the pub.

"What?" Anderson said, looking between them. Steve and the other two Yarders also looked confused. Only Donovan had a flash look of understanding, which she followed by throwing her napkin on the table in obvious disgust. "Oh, please don't tell me you're thinking of—"

"Sally," Lestrade looked at her, a warning in his eyes.

"It's just…Greg, its _unbelievable_ how you keep going back on this!" she said, looking at him with disbelief. "The man was a _fraud,_ he said so himself! I don't know why you keep harbouring this _fantasy…"_

John felt his blood pressure rising, the cold burning away. He took a long drink of beer, which failed to cool his temper.

"Donovan, I've told you before, we respect your opinion—"

"Yes! So then why—"

"So you should do the same." Lestrade's tone gave little room for argument.

"Wait, are you guys actually talking about…" Anderson said, finally managing to cotton on.

" _What_ exactly is this about?" Steve asked, still puzzled.

"Can we drop it, please." John said quietly.

Either she didn't hear him or didn't care, because Donovan turned to Steve to answer his question. "Oh, a few years back we had a man who called himself a "consulting detective"."

" _Consulting_ detective?" Steve repeated, frowning and taking a drink.

Donovan snorted. "Don't ask. He made it up. Anyway, he'd help on cases, seeing what we "didn't observe"" She made midair quotations with her fingers. "He called it the magic of deduction or something."

"The _magic_ of—"

"Deduction, yeah, something like that. Long story short, he was actually in on all the crimes he "solved", to make himself look clever—"

"Donovan—"

She turned to Lestrade and spoke with just as much heat. "My _opinion,_ Greg! It just happens to be the right one, since he bloody well admitted to it himself!" She turned back to Steve. "He did, he confessed to everything, right after this huge disaster case that had a bunch of people held hostage or killed, and I guess the guilt finally caught up to him."

"So he's in prison?"

"No, he didn't want to face anyone after that. He just—"

John stood, nearly upturning the table. As it was, he did shake it enough to knock Anderson's drink over into his lap. Ignoring his angry curses, John glared at Donovan with fury burning in his gut, but he kept his voice level. "You can have your goddamn opinions. But you aren't going to talk about them in front of me."

She looked at him, and his anger grew as he read the sympathy in her eyes. "John, listen, you have to understand—"

He left the table without another word. He ignored Lestrade, who made a half-hearted attempt at calling him back. But he knew John too well. He wasn't going to sit back at that table anytime soon.

John went to the toilets and washed his face in the sink. His ears were still ringing. He stared at his face in the mirror as he dried his hands. Impassive, for the most part, with the only sign of his flash of fury being the slight flush. But he was apt at hiding his anger, and wasn't one to fly in a rage at the drop of a hat. Only a couple of times he'd slipped. Of course, those always seemed to be the times he regretted most in his life. Fights with Harry that never quite got resolved…the heated argument at Bart's that lost him his job… " _You machine"…_

He wiped his face with the paper towel, rubbing his eyes vigorously. Two years…no, two and a half…all of a sudden everything seemed to be bringing him back to that time. He was thinking more of it in the past week then he allowed himself in the entire past half a year.

The door opened. In the mirror, John saw Steve enter, saw him see John in the reflection. "Hey." John said, balling up the towel and chucking it in the overflowing bin.

Steve nodded in acknowledgement, went to the paper towel dispenser and began pumping out yards of the stuff.

"Going to make a paper quilt?"

"Anderson's lap is filled with lager. The napkins aren't exactly doing the best job at mopping it up."

"Oh." John tried to look guilty, but it took too much out of him. "Hey, listen, sorry about…that."

"I wouldn't have taken you for having such a temper." Steve replied, winding the towel into a loose roll. "I think everyone's in mild shock."

"Yeah, well…they should try and understand a bit sometimes." John muttered.  "Wouldn't kill them." 

"I'm still in the dark, to be honest." Steve said.

"Well, just listen to Donovan's _opinion_ then, seems that's what everyone's set to believe anyway." John's tone sounded so bitter it even surprised him. He cleared his throat. "Sorry."

Steve shrugged. "No worries. I'm still confused. Who was she talking about?"

John paused. The last thing he wanted to do was start talking; thinking was bad enough. But then again, nothing would be worse then letting Donovan's account be the only one people heard. He leaned against the sink, subconsciously flexing his hand. "He was…I'm surprised you never read about it in the papers…his name was Sherlock Holmes. I met him just after returning from service in Afghanistan." Saying his name felt strange, and just those words brought everything to the forefront of his brain—like lifting a garden brick to find the worms and beetles beneath.

Steve looked somewhat interested, so John reluctantly continued. "From the moment I met him he seemed to know things that other people didn't…he could guess a person's family life by how they tied their shoes, that sort of thing."

"The magicof deduction?"

"The _science_ of deduction." John smiled a bit as he remembered Sherlock constantly making the same type of correction, again and again.

"I see…"

John didn't like the note of doubt in his voice, and felt his anger spike again. "Look, I'm not asking you to believe me. I'm just telling you this because he deserves to have two sides of the story told."

"He does?" Steve asked.

His tone was curious, but all John heard was scepticism. He didn't answer for a second. "You know what, never mind. I'm not going to talk about this right now." He brushed past Steve to get to the door. "You better get those towels to Anderson before he gets soggy."

"John…" The door closed.

John headed for his spot at the counter, before remembering everyone at the table. For a few contemplative seconds he debated on whether he should just leave. It would certainly be easier, since he'd bought his own drink beforehand, and he would skip having to talk to any of them for the time being. But he knew it was inevitable, and the last thing he wanted was yet another label concerning his mental stability.

That thought was enough to send him reluctantly to the table, where they had resumed a low chatter, friendly enough. He felt uncomfortable as one by one they stopped talking and stared at him instead. He coughed a bit, and put on a small, very forced, smile. "My apologies, everyone. I'm a little on edge, as you saw. Long day. I think I'll be heading off now…"

"John, don't feel you have to leave…" Lestrade began, shooting daggers at a frowning Donovan.

"No, its fine, Greg. I've been exhausted all week, I think I'll turn in early. I'll see you all." He gave them all a parting nod, careful to resist a glare in Donovan and Anderson's direction. The latter wasn't even looking up; Steve had arrived and dropped the mound of paper towel in his lap, in which Anderson was now quite ineffectively cleaning up his trousers.

John pushed open the door and walked into the chilly night, zipping up his coat. The weather had warmed up just enough to melt the small fall of snow, so John's shoes were soaked within seconds of walking in the wet slush.

 _Stupid._ John blew air out in a huff, watching his breath swirl and fade. _I shouldn't have said anything. Lestrade shouldn't have said anything. Not with them there, at least._

He could have hailed a cab by then, he would have normally, but right then John wanted a bit of time to walk and think. His watch read nearly eight, and John knew that Paul usually (always) made his dinner of beans or vegetable soup at eight. And John just wasn't ready for _that_ conversation—Paul's _hey_ followed by John's _hi,_ followed by a beat of silence, and then a small tidbit of information relevant to life that Paul would provide: _I turned up the heat, because it got a little chilly,_ or _the middle lightbulb in the bathroom flickers once in awhile._ And John defiantly wouldn't be able to handle _I got bread. It's in the breadbox._ He just couldn't. Not tonight.

John reached up to scratch the corner of his eye. At the same moment, he thought he saw something dart out of his vision, aside from his hand. He quickly lowered it, and turned to look at the other side of the road. Nothing. A payphone, a meter, and a narrow alley. Which was empty. Dark, and empty. John squinted, trying to see into the gloom.

 _Nothing's there, you tit,_ John thought, though still staring avidly into the alley. He continued at it for a few more seconds before giving up, and began to walk again. _It was your finger. Or a bird. Or a bloody speck. It was nothing._

But "nothing" still managed to make the hairs on his neck stand, and John couldn't help but imagine phantom eyes following him all the way down the road towards Baker Street.


	5. Chapter 5

"Okay, Mr Lennox, you can breathe now." John hung his stethoscope back around his neck while the hefty man sitting on the bed let out a noisy breath. John waited for the gust of infected and undoubtedly rancid air to rush by his face before talking again. "It looks like a nasty cold you got there."

Mr Lennox looked confused. "Wha? Are you sure?" He sniffed loudly, and pressed a ball of tissue to his running nose.

"Yes, it's nothing serious."

"Buh…buh it doesn't _feel_ like a cold…" He coughed a wet little cough. "My throat hurts, my head's killing me, feels like pudding's been poured in it…"

"Yes, those are all symptoms of a cold."

"I can't sleep, I haven't slept well in days…"

"Due to the cold, yes, it can be uncomfortable."

"My ears ring, it's muffled, like I'm going deaf—"

"Again, cold. Ears fill with fluid, causing them to ring." John flipped the paper over of the chart on his clipboard, and pretended to consult relevant information while subtly checking his watch. "Its fine, Mr Lennox, you just need bed rest and fluids, and maybe some extra strength antihistamine. Give it a couple of days; you'll be up again in no time." John smiled at the man. Amazing; a large gentleman in every sense—stubble, an impressive amount of muscle, hands probably very capable at dismantling things—yet he seemed in the depths of miserable suffering, holding the tissue to his nose and shuffling pathetically out of the room. John shook his head, still smiling as the door closed.

The man was his last patient of the day, a day filled with many of his kind; men and women bursting in, proclaiming to be the host of a deadly virus or flu, and leaving, slightly bewildered, with instructions on how to survive a dastardly cold. John ripped the used paper off the bed and threw it away, then sat down on his stool and sighed, closing his eyes. The day had been long and fairly uneventful, which was surprisingly as taxing as if John had been running about, performing emergency surgeries one after another.

There was a knock on the door. "Come in!" he called, standing up. He shouldn't have any other patients scheduled after six.

It was Emily. She smiled at him. "You're off, John?"

"Ah, yes." He tried not to rock back on his heels, which was proving difficult. "Are you?" He realised too late what he was implicating, and tried to blow it off by casually consulting his clipboard again. But he couldn't prevent his ears from pricking hopefully as he waited for her answer.

"Yes, I'm off. Going to meet Brian." Her voice lit up on the name, and John felt the familiar thud of his thoughts settling back to square one.

"Ah. Boyfriend?"

"Yes. Well, no actually." John mentally raised his eyebrows, only to lower them as she brought up her left hand, a glittering ring visible on her finger. "He asked last night!" The ring seemed to wink roguishly, as if giving John a condescending little chuckle; he had the strangest urge to make a face at it.

"That's fantastic, congratulations!" _You cocky prat,_ John thought. To the ring.

"Oh, thanks! I'm just on top of the world!" She hummed a bit as she took his clipboard for him.

John chose that moment to leave, saying goodbye to a still humming Emily. He told himself that it was because he was tired and wanted to go home, but in truth he didn't fancy hearing any more about this phenomenal Brian. Also, she'd taken away his clipboard, giving him nothing to consult importantly as she watched.

John took his mobile out of his labcoat pocket before hanging it in the staff closet, and saw he had a message from Lestrade. He hadn't text John since apologising again after the pub, just under two weeks ago.

_There's been another one._

John stared at the simple message for a few long seconds. Then he quickly fired a text back.

_Where?_

_Baker Street. A bit farther down, and the man was on the other side of the road._

_Well, I'll be seeing it, then. I'll stay back, though._

It took a few minutes for Lestrade to reply. John had hurriedly waved goodbye to whoever happened to be in the lobby and exited the clinic before he felt his phone vibrate again.

_Probably best. This place is a mob._

John slipped his phone back in his pocket, and hailed a cab. He wasn't waiting for the bus today.

Lestrade hadn't been exaggerating. The place was swarmed, by civilians and reporters both. Behind the police tape the investigators and forensic team tried to work while keeping the scene hidden from the hungry eyes of the media. A hastily put up tent served that purpose, while presumably keeping the body dry from the half-hearted sleet that had started falling.

John kept to the other side of the road, walking slowly as he surveyed the scene. Taking out his phone, he sent Lestrade a text. _Do you want a coffee? I was going to get one._

He waited, rocking from foot to foot as he watched the tumult across the street. He could see Lestrade now; on the phone, talking to whoever it was like they wouldn't let him get a word in. John waited a few minutes longer, then started walking again. He'd get him a coffee anyway.

He went to Speedy's and ordered two larges from a barista that seemed much more intent on craning her head over the counter in an attempt to see the crime scene. If John was so inclined he probably could have paid her in pieces of napkin.

Walking back, he was grateful for the two coffees he held that were unfreezing his fingers a bit. Though he really should have been concentrating on their contents staying in the proper place, instead he took the time to study each person he walked by. A bony man and his little dog, a woman in spiky mauve heels absolutely opposite what she should have been wearing in two inches of sleet, an older bloke with a briefcase and a hairpiece …No one quite jumped out as being handy with a rifle, but John knew criminals often had a habit of being the least likely people imaginable.

 _Like a cabbie,_ he thought, wincing as a scalding drop of coffee ran onto his hand from the leaking top on one of the cups. _Or someone from IT._

John nearly spilled both of the coffees when his phone vibrated in his pocket. Awkwardly placing one cup in the crook of his arm, he pulled out his phone and checked the message.

_Sure. Thanks._

Sighing, John stuffed the mobile back in his pocket and grabbed the cup from his arm before it slipped all the way through.

Just as he was about to cross the road, John spotted a gangly photographer on his side of the street, aiming a large professional looking camera at the scene. He walked over. "Ah, hi?"

"'ey." The man took another picture, kneeling low for a more dramatic angle. John didn't know whether to do anything or not; surely he wasn't doing anything illegal. But John still felt the inkling that it wasn't the best idea, as though it were promoting the killer somehow. Advertisement.

"Don't you think you have enough?" John asked, not rudely.

"Piss off." The man replied, though in the same friendly tone that John had used. He took his eye away from the camera to give John an up and down glance, as if sizing him up. He didn't look impressed. "You want to give a statement?"

"Are you a reporter?" John asked, wishing he could put the hot cups down, despite the cold. He should have asked for sleeves.

"Nah, just a freelance photo-grapher." He pronounced "photographer" as two words, and looked extremely proud of his own wit. "But sometimes they ask me if I get any quotes from people. Some don't talk to the press, but they'll talk to me."

"Ah, sorry, I don't have anything." John said politely.

"Eh, makes no difference, they never use my info anyway. Just the pics." He straightened up and put his camera away, stuffing it in a rucksack. "If that. Later." He walked off, swinging the pack over his shoulder.

John hurried across the street, conscious of the great number of police enforcement that could witness his illegal crossing. None of them seemed to notice, or care. However, Lestrade looked more then pleased at the coffee that John gratefully handed to him.

"Thanks." He took a sip, still on the phone. "I've been trying to get through to this guy's physician for the past ten minutes."

"His physician? Why his physician?" John asked, surreptitiously wiping his hand on his trousers.

"Well, I'm not quite sure if it _is_ his physician." Lestrade tucked his phone in the crook of his neck and held out something. John took it and studied it curiously. It was a small, very battered business card in a protective baggy. John squinted, trying to make out the writing. "All we can really get out of it is that it's some kind of doctor, and the phone number. Well, most of it, save for one digit. I've been going from zero to ten for the past bit. Trial and error, though it doesn't seem to be working."

"It doesn't?" John asked, looking at him. "Trial and error not working? You'll be dividing by zero next."

"Hilarious. Eight of the numbers are households, and two don't exist, like this one." He brought the phone down, shaking his head in frustration.

John handed him back the card. "Probably changed his number, lots of people are switching to mobiles nowadays. The card looks pretty old."

"I'm guessing it is, it was crumpled at the very bottom of the man's jacket pocket." Lestrade looked back at the tent. "Other then that, there was no ID."

"None at all?"

He shook his head. "There were some other receipts for restaurants that we're running now, looked about as old, though." He smiled unexpectedly and snorted a laugh. "And a lipstick tube."

John laughed as well. "You serious?"

Lestrade looked back again, grinning. "Looks like he had a few secrets he wasn't telling." John saw his grin fade somewhat. "Maybe one of them was what landed him under that tent."

"Don't suppose I could take a look? Maybe I've seen him around."

He shook his head. "Sorry, John. Would, but its hectic, people are starting to panic. Don't want them seeing you come in and think it's suddenly a free for all." He took a long drink of coffee. "Plus, there's really not much chance of anyone recognising him at the moment. The bullet went through the back of the head."

"Bit different from the norm." John remarked.

"That there's a norm at all is worrying, and even more so since the exit wound's done a number on the face. No nose or upper mouth."

John made an involuntary face, which he attempted to cover with a sip of coffee.

Lestrade's phone began to ring, and he hurriedly pulled it out. "Sorry, John, got to take this." He motioned with his coffee. "Go on home, mate, you look frozen."

John began to deny it, before realising it wouldn't exactly be convincing if his teeth chattered while he talked. "Will do. I'll see you around." Reluctantly he waved as he turned away, his mind still whirring as he trudged on numbed feet towards 221.

_How's the search?_

_Do you know an Ian Fenner?_

_Name doesn't ring a bell. That the bloke?_

_Seems to be. The receipts were his wife's. Same goes with the lipstick, so he wasn't amusing himself by trying on woman's pants or anything._

_Why would he have her stuff in his pockets?_

_Apparently he was a jealous bastard. Went through her purse._

_Ah…so he wasn't a nice man._

_No. That seems to be a theme, funnily enough. Though the wife seemed properly devastated. She wants to see him._

_Not a good idea, is it?_

_I wouldn't say so, no. Unless she just wants to confirm a job well done._

_Still not a good idea. You should see if he was messing around behind her back. I read somewhere that cheaters are often the most suspicious of partners._

_That's an idea. If it's true, it gives us a few more potential suspects. Ok, I'm off._

_Have fun._

_Thanks._


	6. Chapter 6

John was gazing deeply into the wall over the stove before he realised he should really have flipped his grilled cheese sandwich by now; he had been abruptly brought out of his reverie by the smell of burning toast. Quickly he turned it over, and frowned at the very dark underside.

"Your toast is burning, I think." Paul noted, wandering into the kitchen with his laptop on his arm, heading to turn on the kettle.

"Really? How did you figure that?" John asked in a surprised tone, his eyes watering slightly from the smoke.

"Well, because I can smell it…and there's some smoke…"

"That's…that's fine, Paul, I get it. And yes, I know it's burning."

"Oh." Paul sat at the table, setting his laptop down. He began typing, clattering the keyboard at a phenomenal rate considering he only used about three fingers. "Someone got shot down the street, I read."

John slid his sandwich on a plate, where it thudded on the ceramic in a not very appetizing manner. "Yes. I saw the scene. Dreadful, isn't it?"

"Yep." Paul continued typing, staring at the screen with wide eyes behind his thick glasses.

John waited a bit longer for him to continue. Then, realising the conversation had ended, he turned his attention back to his sandwich. By the time it cooled enough to eat, it had a texture that would put a plank of dry wood to shame.

Swallowing a bite, John shuddered and turned back to Paul. "Where did you read about the man being shot?"

"Hmm? Oh, the newspaper. It's in the living room."

"Thanks." John put down his sandwich and headed out of the kitchen.

"You gonna finish that sandwich?" Paul called.

John paused in the doorway. "Probably not. You'd do best not to either, Paul."

"You should throw it away if not, John, I've seen fruit flies about."

"I'll gladly do it in a minute." John walked out.

"I've seen _quite_ a few fruit flies, John!"

"Paul, sod off, will you. I doubt even fruit flies want what I just made."

"Alright…"

John saw the newspaper set precisely flush with the edge of the endtable it was on. He picked it up and unfolded it. On the front page, a large photograph was next to a headline of "Third Shooting in Central London Gives Rise to Panic". John realised with a frown that the photo was most likely one that was taken by the photographer he had met. At least, Lestrade didn't look like he'd drunk his coffee yet. John again skimmed the article, finding no more then he expected. _"For the third time, police are baffled at the seemingly random murders"…"A sense of fear is sweeping the streets of London"… "Nothing is given on the identity of the latest victim gunned down on Baker Street"… "It's at times like this one almost wishes the fable of Sherlock Holmes would rise and help solve this baffling and bloody puzzle"…_ John threw the paper back on the table. No more then he expected.

 _A bit of a sour start to the weekend,_ John thought moodily, picking up the remote and clicking on the telly. He flopped down in a chair and resigned to a morning of bad talkshows and cooking programmes.

John's phone began to vibrate, buzzing about on the table he'd set it on. Settled deep into his chair, John wasn't making much of an attempt to answer. Paul walked in from the kitchen, carrying his now closed laptop and a cup of tea. "John, your phone is ringing."

"Yes, Paul, I realise that." John said, determinedly keeping his eyes on the whisk that was mixing eggs vigorously on the screen.

Paul walked over and looked at his phone. "Steve's calling."

Steve? John kept looking at the screen. "I'm not answering at the moment. I'm very busy."

"You aren't, really." Paul remarked.

John closed his eyes for a second. Then he opened them and turned to Paul, who was still eyeing his phone. "Paul, should you not be studying?"

Paul looked at him, then his laptop. The most curious look of horror spread across his face, and without another word he scurried to his room, his tea splashing around dangerously in his mug. John heard his door close with a slam.

John debated for a few moments whether or not he should call Steve back, and decided not to. He would, eventually, but at the moment he didn't feel up to small talk, or even chatting about the most recent development in the case. He'd wondered if Lestrade had told him, since Steve was investigating it, somewhat. Then again, the dead man was a Londoner through and through, with no ties whatsoever to Ireland.

John flicked through the channels absently. Steve could wait. He hadn't contacted John since the night at the pub, and Lestrade had said he'd gone back to Ireland. It seemed strange that he would come back for a case that had clearly left his country.

 _Maybe his wife chucked him out again,_ John thought. _I'll call him back in a bit._

But then, John was also reluctant to talk to him again, mostly because he knew that their last conversation would most likely be brought up one way or another. And John really did not feel like talking on that subject that morning. Not that he particularly wanted to any other morning.

 _Bzzzzzz._ The phone vibrated again, moving closer to the edge of the table. It stopped quicker, so it was either a text, or the caller had accurately assumed their call would most likely go unanswered.

John spent a few more minutes flicking through channels before he threw down the remote and heaved himself out of the seat. His reason for getting up was as much for preventing the phone from falling off the table on its next ring as it was for checking the message. He clicked it on, and saw a missed call and a text from Steve.

_John please call me back._

"Keen, are you?" John muttered. Well, he wasn't going to call. He slid open the keyboard and typed a text.

 _What is it, Steve?_ It wasn't the most polite thing he could have written, but John felt he'd used up all his morning etiquette in not strangling Paul.

A few minutes later his phone buzzed again. _Why didn't you text me about the shooting?_

 _It wasn't my place to, I figured Lestrade would. Why didn't you call him?_ So Lestrade had said nothing. He'd either not felt the need, forgot, or expected John to.

_I have, all morning. His line's been busy._

_Makes sense, since the case doesn't. Where did you hear about it, then?_

_I got the London paper._

_Well, sorry then. Are you in London?_

_I'm on my way now._

John was surprised at this text. But then again, wasn't that what Steve had said when they met, that he often came to London on cases? His marriage must really be on the downhill slide.

_Well, just text Lestrade then, he'll get it eventually. Weather's horrible, so he's probably at the Yard._

_John, Steve is back in town._

John stared at this one, nonplussed, for a few seconds. Then he realised that it had been Lestrade who texted, with relief that Steve had not suddenly slipped into third person.

_I know, I'm talking to him now. He's going to want to look at the scene._

_Well, it's cleared up by now. But he can come down to the Yard and take a look at the evidence if he wants._

_I'm assuming the scene's been cleared, then._

_Yeah. Lestrade said you could go look at the evidence at the Yard._

_Fine. Were you at the scene as well? You weren't in the picture._

_I was burning myself with coffee at the time._

_That isn't healthy, John._

There was a light knock on the door. John walked over and opened it; Ms Hudson smiled warmly at him, holding a covered dish. "Hello, dear. I made much more casserole then I could ever eat myself, so I brought over a bit." She dropped her voice down to a stage whisper. "I'm sorry, were you on the phone?"

"No, no," he slipped his phone in his pocket, "just a few texts." He took the dish and stood aside so she could come in. "Thank you, Ms Hudson, I know I'll never starve as long as you keep making "too much"."

"It was no trouble, John. You were smiling, were you texting Cheryl?" She hurried over to the fridge, opened it, and began rearranging the food inside to make room for the casserole.

"Ah," John said, wincing inwardly. "Well…"

"Oh dear…" Ms Hudson said, and for a moment John wondered if he'd let something awful grow in the fridge, but then she turned to him and gave him a sad smile. "Did you two have a quarrel?"

"How did—" John shook his head, amazed. "Yes, we did."

"Well, I'm sure it'll pass over, John."

"Actually, I don't think it'll work out." John shrugged and put the casserole in the fridge, then closed the door. "I think it was for the best."

"Well, she's the only one losing in this situation." Ms Hudson said assuredly, patting his cheek. "Who was that on the phone, if it wasn't her?"

"Oh, nobody, just a…friend. Did you want a cuppa before you go?"

"Oh no, dear, I'm afraid I'm already running late for a doctors appointment." She rubbed her hip. "A friend, hmm? Was it that Detective Inspector?" John saw her subconsciously pat her hair and grinned.

"No, another inspector though." Practically feeling her curiosity, he added, "His name is Steve. We met at Peggy's."

Her expression became concerned. "Peggy's? I don't like the sound of meeting people there, John, all sorts go there, it isn't exactly high class…"

"No, he's fine, he's helping the Detective Inspector with a case." John suddenly felt twelve, asking his mother for permission to go to a new friend's place. "Anyway, he's not exactly a friend. Just a colleague."

"Well…" She still sounded uncertain, but let the subject drop. She looked around. "Is Paul wandering about? Or is he studying?"

"It's eleven, so he's in his room." John shook his head. "Is school even learning anymore, or has it skipped that step and just sets exams every day?"

"Oh, I believe his finals are finished this week, since he's leaving next week. Is it really eleven already?" She checked her watch, giving an anxious little cluckat the time. "Would you do me a favour, dear, and tell Paul that he only needs to pay a half months rent?"

"Yes, absolutely." John walked her down the stairs to the door, and only then realised what she'd just said. "Paul is leaving?" he asked, surprised.

"Oh, yes, he's going back home. That reminds me, did you want me to put a new ad in the paper? Though it might be difficult getting an exchange student with the holidays coming, John."

John felt slightly overwhelmed. "Ah…well…" He shook his head. "Don't worry about it, Ms Hudson. I'll just pay the next while in full, and after the New Year I'll put an ad in." It felt too soon to have to break in yet another flatmate, a process that more often then not involved John explaining to shocked and slightly disgusted students that the skull on the mantle was a permanent fixture. The same went for the skull painting on the wall. They all most likely assumed he had an unhealthy fondness for human remains, since John never added a reason other then "they come with the flat". He did this partly because it was true; they had been there when he arrived, and they'd be there if he left. He also simply had a secret enjoyment seeing pampered, overconfident exchange students turn a bit green, and watching their expressions when he introduced the skull as "a friend of a friend."

"Well, if you're sure…" Ms Hudson gave his hand a parting squeeze. "I just can't bear to think of you alone on Christmas. If we're both lonely that day I'll make us dinner, hmm?"

"Sounds lovely, Ms Hudson."

John waved at her as she left, and he saw her hail a cab. He smiled to himself as he watched the cab drive off. But just as he was closing the door, he saw a flicker in his peripheral vision.

He opened the door wide again, and scanned the sidewalk in front of the flat. No one. He felt his smile fade as he looked across the street, to the buildings opposite. Nothing—wait. John squinted. And he saw the briefest flash of something disappearing behind a window.

John swallowed. He glanced around once more, with the intention of looking like he had seen nothing, but in his head his thoughts were racing. The tidy, rational and fairly calm part of his brain was saying that it could have been literally anything, and that even if it was a person it didn't automatically make it a person with a high calibre rifle. But then there was another significant bit of his brain going off in wild directions—wondering if he should call someone, wondering if he should go to the building and check it out, wondering if he'd cleaned his pistol recently…

After a few moments of contemplation, he realised that standing quite motionless in his doorway, in broad view, was not the best method of going about the situation. Quickly he backed into the flat, keeping his eye on the third storey window he'd seen the flash, then closed the door and bolted the lock. He resisted the urge to lean against the door, instead heading for the stairs, making the distance between him and the front of the building first priority.

As soon as he entered the flat, he took out his phone and quickly dialled Lestrade's mobile. He paced the length of the room, listening to it ring, and just as the call clicked to voicemail he hung up, muttering under his breath. He slide out the keyboard and sent a text for Lestrade to call him back as soon as possible. As an afterthought, he also sent a message to Steve: _If you're with Lestrade, tell him to answer his bloody phone._

John hurried up to his room, taking two stairs at a time. Going to his dresser, he rummaged around until he found what he was looking for; a pistol, nestled deep in the corner.

His phone vibrated. Checking, he saw that Steve had replied. _I'm not. Why?_

 _Because I think I saw someone on the third floor in the building opposite me, the same area I saw a flash last time when the sniper fired._ John put down the phone and checked his gun; still loaded. He slid it in his pocket.

The text came back swiftly. _Did they see you see them?_

_Steve, I'm not even sure that what I saw was a person. But I did stand there for an unusually long period of time._

_Are you in your flat?_

_Yes. Though not for long, if Lestrade doesn't get my message I'm going to take a look._

John felt significantly less brave then the text made him sound. But he levelled his shoulders and headed for the stairs. He wouldn't go into the building; no size gun in his hand could possess him to do something so idiotic. He'd go and get a small coffee from Speedy's, sit down for awhile, and watch. If someone came out of the building that carried anything _remotely_ long, he would…well, he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

Before he even started down the stairs, however, he felt his phone buzz once more.

_Do not leave the flat stay there._

John felt a spike of frustration. _They could get away._ John waited for the prompt text back, resigning to hold off going out until Steve replied.

Waiting provided no result. There was no answering text from Steve, or Lestrade for that matter. John sat on his bed as the minutes ticked by, clenching and unclenching his hand, then thumbing the safety on his gun. With every passing moment he felt his restlessness increase, until he felt he could no longer stand it. He jumped to his feet and headed downstairs to the living room. He could at least take a glance out the window. If there was no one in the windows opposite, then he was heading out. Sod Steve.

Just as he was shrugging on his jacket and grabbing his keys, John felt his phone ring. With mounting irritation, he pulled out his phone and read the message.

_The building's empty now. Whoever it was left in a hurry._

John blinked, staring at this message that made little sense. Then, fuming, he sent a heated text back. _So he left, and he got a cab, or bloody walked. While I was in here._ John threw his phone down on the chair and ran for the window. Yanking back the shade, he peered out, looking around the sidewalk in front of the opposite building. No one. He looked as far to the side as he could, trying to make out any figures hurrying away. Nothing.

Just as he was pulling back, he caught a flash of someone. Coming out of the building. John leaned forward and looked harder, nearly thunking his head on the glass. Then he realised who it was, letting out a sigh of mixed relief and annoyance.

Steve walked quickly to the sidewalk, looking left and right, presumably doing exactly what John had just finished doing. He put a hand to his brow and tried to block the clouded sun and the light snow as he gazed down the sidewalk. Evidentially as unsuccessful as John, Steve shook his head and reached into an inner pocket, pulling out his phone.

 _Bzz._ John turned about and went to grab his phone.

_Whoever it was most likely left through a back door. You wouldn't have been able to do anything._

_Back door? Then why did you just look down the sidewalk in front of the building?_

John waited a little longer for this reply.

_Precaution._

John snorted. _Right. How in gods name did you even get here so fast?_

_I was near the Yard when you texted. I came back here instead._

_Must have been a fast cabbie._

_They tend to be, with the promise of a hefty tip._

_Philosophies we can all live by._ John glanced about the flat, measuring its messiness and his reluctance verses his curiosity. He eventually caved to the latter. _Did you want to come up? My thumbs are feeling faint._

As soon as the text was sent John began hastily cleaning, throwing things about in a frenzy and stuffing odds and ends out of sight as he attempted to make the flat look halfway presentable.

The phone vibrated. John stuffed a newspaper under the chair it had been on and snatched the phone up, sitting on the floor for a minute as he caught his breath and checked the message. _I suppose I could for a moment. Which door is yours?_

_221 b. Right next to the cafe. Give me a second to come down._

John heaved himself to his feet. He took a glance behind him as he headed for the door. It hardly looked better then before he'd tidied—in his dismayed opinion it almost looked worse—but it'd have to do. _Ah well_ , John thought, jogging down the stairs. _If he mentions the mess I can say its Paul's._

John yanked open the door, almost absentmindedly brushing his hand against the pistol handle in his pocket.

Steve noted this with raised eyebrows. His glasses were fogged, either from the cold, or they had somehow become even more scratched since the last time John had seen him. He was still wearing the blue jacket, but he had wound a scarf around his neck to fight the biting wind, and flakes of snow were dotted in his ginger hair and beard. John quickly brought his hand back up, holding it out to shake. "Hey, Steve, come in. You must be chilled."

Steve shook his hand as he came in, closing the door behind him. He pulled down the scarf. "Not much." He looked around the foyer. "This is yours?"

"Ah, no, this floor is my landlady's. Mine's up a flight."

They headed back up. John huffed a bit; it did feel as though he'd done nothing but traverse stairs in the past half hour. Steve followed behind, not saying anything. When they walked through the door of the flat, John hurried forwards, noticing a pile of books on one of the two chairs in the living room.

After he'd cleared both chairs he looked back to Steve. "Sit, if you want. I can make tea if you fancy on staying a bit?"

Steve was busy looking around him, studying the flat, probably taking in the mess. John watched him, feeling almost nervous, as though Steve was some sort of house inspector. After a few more moments Steve answered, still looking about. "Don't trouble yourself. I'm probably heading for the Yard soon."

"Alright, then." John said, awkwardly. He hooked his thumbs in his pockets, and one hit the gun. He felt like taking it out and putting it away, but John knew that pulling out a pistol with no warning wouldn't exactly make his guest feel comfortable.

Steve didn't notice his awkwardness, or at least didn't mention it. Instead, John saw his mouth quirk slightly, and John knew it was in revulsion as he realised what Steve was now looking at.

"Yes, I know." John said with a smile.

"A skull." Steve said, nodding to the mantle.

John went to it and picked it up, turning it over in his hand, and grinned at Steve, who made even more of a face. "I know. A friend. Of a friend." John put it down. He couldn't ignore the strong déjà vu any more then he could ignore the irony of role reversal.

"That's…disgusting." Steve said jerkily. He turned away, evidentially disturbed.

"What with your line of work, I'd expect you to have a stronger stomach."

"In my line of work, human remains usually stay in the morgue."

"Not always." John took it to himself to sit down on a chair. "Speaking of which…was there anythingin the building to suggest someone was there? Anything at all?"

Steve finally sat down, as gingerly as though the chair was constructed of toothpicks and glue. "Nothing."

 _Of course._ John kneaded his brow with his fingers. "So either he raced out the back, leaving no trace, or I'm seeing things."

"It would seem so."

"Well, that's heartening." John leaned back heavily in the chair. "I see things." He suddenly chuckled. "I see, but I don't _observe."_

"What's so funny?" Steve asked inquisitively.

"Nothing. Just…" John cleared his throat, wishing he hadn't spoken at all. "Just something a friend used to say."

"Oh." Steve glanced up, looking at the skull again, and rubbed his bearded chin. "Does his head now sit atop your mantle?" His sounded as though he almost dreaded the answer.

"What? No, no." John laughed again. "But you're close. That's a friend of his."

"Ah..." Steve was obviously puzzled, and for a second John felt almost sorry for him.

The silence dragged on for a while more. John wished that Steve had agreed to tea; at least it would have given him something to occupy his hands, to clatter about and break the quietness a little. But though John was feeling increasingly uncomfortable, Steve seemed no more perturbed then when he first walked in. He continued to sit, a bit more relaxed, in the chair, looking around the flat with polite interest. John had hoped there would be more to discuss about the possible man in the building, unfortunately that didn't seem the case.

"So…" John said, desperately searching his mind for something to say. "Back to Ireland, hm?" It wasn't the most fascinating topic, but at least it was a step above talking about the past few weeks of grey skies.

"What? Oh, yes…" Steve tore his eyes away from the skull once more. "I was researching the first victim. Also looking at the past cases of the assassinations we've had there."

"Anything new?"

"Nothing that we haven't already gone over." Steve adjusted his glasses, frowning. "Who was the last victim?"

"Name was Ian…lets see…" John strained to remember. "Fenner. Ian Fenner."

"Occupation?"

"Not sure, have to ask Lestrade, won't you?" John picked up his phone and checked; no reply. "Horrid husband, though. Apparently he went through his wife's purse, looking for evidence that she was cheating."

Steve nodded. "So, the wife is a suspect, then." He thought for a moment, brow furrowed in concentration. "And…I suppose…if the husband's instincts are correct, the man she's having an affair with could be a suspect as well."

 _Well done, Steve_ John thought, but didn't say."If the husband was cheating too, you can't rule out his own affairs as well."

Steve frowned. "Bit hypocritical, isn't it?"

"Just a bit."

"And yet, if we're assuming it's the same sniper, there has to be some way of connecting every victim." Steve tapped his foot lightly on the ground, before he seemed to realise what he was doing and stopped. "So far the only thing we have is the murders happening within miles of each other."

John felt his phone vibrate. _Finally. Ever so slightly on the late side, though._ John picked up, giving an apologetic glance at Steve and motioning that he wouldn't be long. "Hi, Greg." He stood up and walked towards the kitchen, not wanting to look rude.

"Sorry, sorry, on the phone all morning. Everything alright?"

"Ah…" John glanced at Steve, who had risen also, looking around again. "Well, I actually thought I saw something in the building opposite, but it turns out I'm a bit off. Must've been the bad grilled cheese."

"Do you want me to send someone over to check?" Lestrade sounded concerned, regardless.

"No, it's all fine. Steve actually took care of it."

"Steve? He's there? Bit of a side trip, isn't it?"

"I texted him after I called you. He's heading over to the Yard soon, no need to panic, Greg."

John spoke a few more minutes, then said goodbye. "Sorry." he said, sliding his phone back in his pocket and turning back. "He's been swamped all morning." John looked around, not seeing Steve. It took a moment before he found him across the room, looking behind the couch. Then John noticed what he was holding.

"Please put that back." John said, much quicker and clipped then he meant to be.

Steve jumped in surprise and turned to John, looking a bit bewildered at his tone. Almost as much as John was. But he didn't say a word; he merely placed the violin case gently back on the floor against the wall where he'd picked it up. "I'm sorry. I just…I never took you as a violinist."

Already feeling guilty, John smiled and shrugged, scratching the back of his head. "Well, I'm not. Sorry about snapping, I was just surprised. To be honest, I'd forgotten that was there."

Steve nodded, looking back at the sleek black case, whose top was covered in a thin layer of dust. "I can see that now. If you don't play it, who does? Your flatmate?"

"My…" John faltered, before realising who he meant. "Oh, Paul. No, no, god no, not Paul."

"Well, good thing. That layer of dust wouldn't be promising for his music career."

John chuckled. "No, it wouldn't." He ran his fingers through his greying hair and sighed. "I shouldn't keep it out here, really. It was my old flatmate's."

"Oh, I see." Steve tilted his head marginally, and stuck his hands in the pockets of his blue coat. "Why didn't he take it with him when he left?"

"He didn't…" John cleared his throat, which suddenly felt very dry. _I knew this would come up._ "He didn't leave. Not in that way. He died."

"Oh. I'm sorry." Steve said, slightly subdued. But behind his foggy spectacles his face was alight, and John knew that he was interested.

"He played the violin when he was thinking," John said, abruptly. He felt Steve's questions bubbling to the surface, and he wanted to avoid them for as long as possible. "He could play beautifully…when he wanted. Though mostly it was just useless plucking, at odd times. Sometimes it was at three in the morning. Drove me mad." John remembered, with surprising clarity, the sound of Sherlock thinking; the muffled _plunk, plunk_ of strings pulled absently, with the occasional _screeeeeee_ of a bow torpidly scraped. John also recalled his own gritted teeth at the grating noise, and the feel of his pillow folded over both ears as he attempted to sleep. This was usually followed, within minutes, of John's bellow down to the living room. The noise would quiet for a good while, and with luck John would drop off. But sometimes he just couldn't manage, and within fifteen minutes the languid claptrap notes would start up again.

"Seems a strange homage, then." Steve noted, looking back at the dusty case.

John shrugged. He didn't explain how it was the violin that, to John, represented both sides. Most of the time it was grating, irritating, and forever against whatever was proper, and yet sometimes, just sometimes, it made music.

"How did he die?" Steve asked suddenly.

John stared at him, and Steve looked back, his eyes blanked by the glare on his glasses. "He…ah…" John leaned against a chair. "He committed suicide." As soon as he uttered the words, there was the familiar pang of guilt, almost painful. That he was forced to explain it so bluntly and vaguely, so simply, seemed almost a crime in itself…but John just didn't have the energy to explain. Not again.

However, Steve didn't seem satisfied with the generic answer. "Good lord, why?" His face now looked properly horrified.

By now, John felt like forcibly pushing Steve out the door. Or perhaps the window. But he knew it wasn't rational, since Steve had no idea what kind of answers he was asking for. John took a deep breath. Then, instead of speaking, he strode to a desk at the side of the room and opened a drawer. He rummaged around for a while before finding what he was looking for. He walked back to Steve and handed him the wrinkled and slightly yellowed copy of the Times.

Steve took it, and looked at the front page headline. John saw him stiffen, as though surprised. "Is this… _this_ was your flatmate?" His accented voice was low, almost hushed.

"Yeah." John folded his arms, choosing not to look at the newspaper himself. "Though, that version of the story is more along the lines of Donovan's opinion, which you already know the gist of." A spark of anger grew in his mind, which he immediately extinguished. _No point_.

"Intellectual fraud." Steve folded the paper and looked up, after reading the article silently for more then a few minutes. "So, what's your take?"

John didn't speak for a minute. Then he looked squarely at Steve. "All I know is…I knew the man. And what that paper says is not the Sherlock I knew."

"So…you don't agree with this?" Steve asked, tapping the paper with a finger. "Why would he kill himself, then?"

John felt like throwing his hands up in frustration. "I can't act like I know everything. To that, I have no answer. Whatever possessed both him and Moriarty to…to off themselves on St Bart's is something I won't understand. It's fitting, since I never really understood anything that they did."

"But then again, this is all going by your presumption that they both… _offed_ themselves." Steve raised his eyebrows and shrugged, as though he was making an obvious point. "I mean, if this Moriarty even existed, and was behind whatever happened, wouldn't anyone be looking to stick a gun in his mouth?"

"Not Sherlock. He would never use violence in a situation his brain could get him out of." John rubbed his eyes. He was finding it increasingly difficult to block out the overwhelming memories, especially with people like bloody Steve prodding them to the surface.

"Perhaps this is one situation his brain _couldn't_ get him out of." Steve countered. "Providing he had one. There _is_ the possibility that you're wrong altogether, isn't there?"

"I'm not wrong." John said, gripping the upholstery of the chair he was leaning on.

"Why are you so keen on standing up for this man?" Steve asked incredulously.

"Because—" John stopped; he had nearly started yelling. Steve looked even more shocked. John took a few moments to calm down before talking again. "Steve, Lestrade's most likely waiting at the Yard."

"He's not suffering." Steve picked at the edge of the newspaper, fraying it slightly, then placed it on a table. "I apologise if I was out of line; I won't ask again. I'm just interested in things like this. My wife could tell you." He smiled uncomfortably, obviously trying to lighten the mood.

"It's fine, don't worry about it." John muttered, feeling drained.

"And you're right, I should get to the Yard."

Steve began zipping up his coat as he talked, and wound his scarf tighter around his thick neck. John hurried to open the door, and, feeling embarrassed at his near outburst, walked Steve down to the front door.

John held out his hand, which Steve hesitated to shake. John let out a sigh and looked in his eyes. "Because…because Sherlock was my friend. My best friend."

Steve looked mildly surprised. "Somehow I find _that_ difficult to understand."

 _That doesn't surprise me._ "Well, don't bother then, because I can't explain it well enough." John brought his hand down without shaking Steve's. "And I'm not going to attempt to try, it isn't worth it."

"Not worth what?"

"I just can't, alright?" _Christ, Steve, haven't you ever lost anyone, or known someone who has? Do any_ _of them_ ever _want to talk about it?_ "And don't think I don't understand where everyone else is coming from, Steve. I'm not daft."

"I never said you were."

 _You were thinking it, it's annoying._ "Every bloody time it goes through my head I feel the same guilt, because I always have this tiny part of my brain that…that doubts the rest." John had no idea why he was still talking. To a man he met at a pub. How splendidly cliché. "And I hate it. It's all so…" he dragged his fingers roughly through his hair again. He was going to scalp himself completely if he didn't calm down. "It never should have happened."

Steve pulled out his phone, and checked the screen; presumably looking at the time. "I wouldn't worry too much, John, that's a fairly normal way of thinking." He gave what John assumed he thought was a sympathetic smile. But John saw the condescending edge, and it was all he could do not to give him a sock in the jaw. "I'm sure that's how most people feel about death." John was almost expecting Steve to follow this with a pat on the head.

"Well, I'm sure the kin of a rich, stingy ninety-year-old would disagree." John forced a smile and gestured to the door. _Off you go, you pompous tit._

Steve's lip twitched, and John hoped he was peeved. With a stiff nod of goodbye, Steve stepped carefully down the two steps to the sidewalk and set off at a brisk pace. It's just as well that he went gingerly; John saw the slight sheen of black ice on the concrete. Sherlock had once dashed out of the apartment for some reason or another, only to flip arse over teakettle when his foot hit an icy stair. Of course, he'd jumped right back up and took off without a moment's hesitation, but it didn't prevent John from bursting into giggles at odd intervals throughout the rest of the morning, earning him more then his fair share of exasperated glares that day.

 _Come to think of it, I wouldn't say no to Steve taking a pratfall on the sidewalk._ John closed the door harder then he intended, and headed for the stairs.

He should have expected this. The few times he had tried to explain Sherlock's account to people, it always ended with at least one who would be looking incredulously at him, asking with their eyes how he could _possibly_ believe the story he'd just told. It was those people that were mainly the reason he avoided talking about it altogether. It was often the case that he'd not enlightened people on the truth; more that he'd simply pitted further people against it.

John walked into the flat and met Paul, who had just exited his bedroom with his empty tea mug in hand. "Was there someone in here?" Paul asked, scrunching his nose to get his glasses up higher. "I heard voices. It could have been the telly."

"Well, it wasn't." John picked up the remote and flicked the telly on, muting it as commercials danced across. "Steve was here for awhile. He just left."

"Oh?" Paul tilted his head. "I thought you didn't want to talk to him?"

"I changed my mind. He was here doing me a favour, anyhow."

"He a friend of yours?"

John paused. "Probably not." he finally answered, sitting down in his chair. "I thought maybe, but I don't think we like each other too much. To be honest, he's almost as dry as the sandwich I made."

"I thought he sounded a bit pushy, like my Gran." Paul said absently. "His voice is kinda like hers, too."

John gave a small laugh, knowing that Paul was referring to Steve's high toned, slightly nasal voice. "Yeah, well…he'll be off to Ireland once this case's over. If it's ever solved, which I'm starting to doubt at this point."

"Hmm…" Paul wandered to the kitchen.

 _There has to be some way they're linked…_ John kneaded his knuckles into his forehead. It wasn't going to do any good; his head ached, and there was no way he was doing any heavy thinking for a good while.

John got to his feet and headed for the kitchen, planning to plug in the kettle. At least he could calm his brain with a cup of tea. Lestrade was probably doing the same thing, replacing the tea with terrible station coffee and whitener. If John thought he was tired, he could only imagine how close Lestrade was to plonking headfirst on his desk.

Sherlock would have loved it. Not the plonking, though he most likely would have chuckled at that as well. But he would relish in the challenge of a difficult case, not sigh with frustration as Lestrade and Steve had done. But then again, had Sherlock been around, the case would probably have been solved the day after the first shot.

The kettle whistled shrilly, sounding pained. John broke out of his reverie and took a mug down from the cupboard, plopping a teabag in. _The case better get resolved soon,_ he thought, pouring the water in, watching the tea stain the water in a growing blossom. _If this madman's motives are simply picking off poor souls at random, then I'm not going to be too comfortable walking down Baker Street._ John knew the feeling of the dancing dot of red light, happily plotting the coordinates of his death. He knew the feel of _many_ red dots. And he wasn't anxious to have it repeated. _Well, I suppose it'd be fast. Wouldn't know a thing. A lucky way to go, really._

John took his tea to the living room. He hoped it would wake him up; though it was hardly noon he felt completely sapped. He sat down in his chair, holding tightly onto the mug, attempting to warm his chilled hands. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes. Perhaps not the most intelligent thing to do when tired and holding a cup of scorching tea, but he couldn't resist; his eyes felt curiously scratchy and raw. _Not the most relaxing start to the weekend, at least. But I'd wager it being slightly more productive then Iron Chef._

John grinned at the empty room. No, he hadn't had a moment of enlightenment, or an epiphany of any kind. He'd just thought about Sherlock slipping and falling down on the sidewalk again.


	7. Chapter 7

John pushed the door open to Peggy's, shaking off the chill of a bitter evening that would only get colder. As usual, the wall of sound met him like an oncoming freight train; laughter and talk, mixed with the constant clink of ice in glasses and the scrape of chairs. Over in a corner table some poor fellow was being subjected to a slightly drunken performance of the birthday song, each friend singing with great enthusiasm, though all appeared to be at different parts of the song.

John walked over to the counter, pleased to see that his usual stool was empty. He was even more pleased to see good old Vern shuffle over to take his order.

"How you been, Vern? Haven't seen you in awhile." John said, sitting down and unzipping his jacket.

"Missed me, have you? Been home with something vile, Johnny. Some sort of strange new virus, I'm guessing." Indeed, Vern looked even sweatier then usual, and coughed wetly into his arm before continuing in a hoarse voice. "Getting rid of it now, shouldn't be contagious anymore, but good god, it was _awful_."

"My, Vern, sounds horrid." John leaned on the bar, his face sympathetic. "What were your symptoms?"  
"Ah, a truckload. Sweats, chills, awful mufflin' of my head, felt like it was filled with cement…"

"Ringing ears?" John asked, trying to look serious.

"Well, yeah!" Vern looked surprised. "Been going around, has it? Hope they're working on whatever it is, get a fix soon."

John bit his cheek, swallowing his smile, and took a sip of the beer Vern slid to him. "Something tells me they won't be too successful on that."

"Have some optimism, John! Too many people lackin' that nowadays." Vern took up his usual stance of polishing glasses, absentmindedly cleaning the exact same beer mug well past its need for it. "Any chance you and Cheryl getting back on?"

"Don't think so. We've talked."

"Ah, the "talk"." Vern put on a sombre face, making quotations while still holding the mug and the cloth; it looked as though he was offering them up for sale. "Rather the "sit while she flays your dignity word by word". My first wife did that. Every mornin'."

"It wasn't like that. We just settled issues and went on our way." John shrugged and took another drink. He and Cheryl _had_ talked; he'd phoned her after three full weeks of silence, still harbouring a slight hope that they could reconcile. But then, he'd pretty much lost whatever was left when it wasn't her that had picked up the phone. The man had sounded like he knew the subtle differences between wrenches, and was most likely bearded and heavily plaid.

He also didn't sound the type to care whether there was residue on clean dishes; rather that he'd consider washing as wiping them on a shirt. They were perfect for each other.

Vern looked almost disappointed. "Ah, that's not as dramatic."

"I've had quite enough drama to be getting along with, Vern." John looked around. "Busy tonight."

"Yeah, well, holidays are coming up, people feelin' more jolly and whatnot." Vern said knowingly. Then he shrugged. "Or the exact opposite."

John laughed. "You planning on doing anything for the holidays?"

"M'wife's got some big family thing going, I dunno. I might have to "work" that night." He did the quotations again, and winked in what he possibly thought was a subtle way, though it was probably visible from the other side of the pub. "My little girl's coming home, though. Taking classes at some big uni in Scotland." Vern pointed with the glass to John's, which was still fairly full. "Drink up, mate, at that pace you're might finish sometime in the New Year."

John shook his head. "Have to make it last, I'm on a budget tonight. My paycheck comes tomorrow." The extra rent had taken up more then he was used to, now that Paul had left. He had picked up the last of his stuff that afternoon, with a highly thought out "'Bye," to his former flatmate as he headed for the door.

Then again, John had replied with a "'bye" in return. But at least he had given a wave as well.

Vern finally stuck the extremely polished glass on a shelf below the counter. "Well, you could always have one of our discount drinks," he said, slinging the towel over his shoulder.

John tutted. "Discounting _drinks_ now? Are they cut with water?"

Vern jerked a thumb over his shoulder, where John noticed a small blackboard was tacked up on the wall between the shelves. On it was written "Carl's Curly Candy Cane and Corona Cocktail: 1" in red and green chalk. "We have this contest, people can have their own creations put up for cheap, and if they're liked enough we might put it on the menu."

"Well, sounds interesting. That one, though…"

Vern silenced him with a shake of his head. "I wouldn't try that one."

"Ah."

"We've had some interesting ones the past few weeks… "Ted's Blueberry Bourbon Bonanza", "Steven's Scotch and Sprite Symphony"… they do a fair bit of business, though people usually stop after one."

"I think I'll risk my budget."

"Maybe you can think up one yourself, John." Vern made the motion of a banner. "John's Gin and Juice…Jamboree!" He paused. "With jelly beans!"

"Ah…don't think so, Vern."

"Yeah, you're right, that sounds terrible." Vern looked around. "I better get goin' before those tossers crack my glasses." Vern hurriedly went over to a group of young men further down, who had long finished their drinks and had begun hitting their glasses against the counter impatiently.

John made the rest of his beer last as long as possible by looking around the pub for awhile. He recognised a few of the old regulars; the sad man with the tweed hat and coat was there, staring at his glass as though he wished he could crawl into it and stay there. The woman of a thousand partners was sitting by the pool tables, leaning heavily over one and flirting loudly with the players, who had also never left. _Pubs; where people go when going home isn't worth the effort._

He had hardly finished this thought when he saw a woman enter the pub, fluffing her blonde hair after pulling down her hood, her face downcast. John quickly turned back to his drink. He was conscious of her looking around, then heading for the counter. He stared even more determinedly into his glass as she sat down on the stool beside him and ordered a gin and tonic. "And make it a big one," she added curtly, her attractive voice morose. Vern nodded obligingly and took down a glass, filling it exactly as he would normally.

John spent the next minute or so waging a fierce battle in his mind. Finally, with a burst of bravery, he turned to the woman, who was sipping at her drink. "Rough day?" he asked, thankful that the words didn't crack.

"Ugh, you have _no idea."_ She slammed down her drink, with the air of having waited long for a chance to unleash her woes. Which, John realised, she probably had been. "I could _kill_ him!" She glared at her glass, as though it had personally done her wrong.

John didn't answer for a moment or two, not knowing exactly how to answer. "Ah…"

She fluttered her hand angrily. "He just…God, I stay home _all day,_ clean _everything,_ make his bloody _dinner,_ and he expects me to do more, and more, and more! Like, what kind of lazy _bastard_ expects that…"

John nodded, agreed, and stared at her while she continued to rant. Why she was talking to him of all people he didn't understand, but he wasn't about to complain.

After she'd blown all her steam, about ten minutes later, she took a deep breath and drank the last of her drink in a long pull. She smiled at John over the rim of her empty glass, her cheeks flushed from the fury and the liquor. "You're nice, you are. Don't get many nice chaps nowadays, hmm?"

John laughed. "Don't suppose you do, no." _Especially if picking at random from a pub is your method of meeting them. But again, not complaining._

"What's your name?" She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, which was hung with a massive hoop earring.

John was about to answer. But just as he opened his mouth he felt a hand on his shoulder, and nearly knocked over his own drink in shock. "John."

No, it wasn't him that had spoken. John turned to the source of the voice and hand, and saw Steve standing above, looking down at him. John looked back at the girl, his mouth opening soundlessly. She gave him a puzzled look, tapping a fingernail on her empty glass.

He looked back at Steve, and lowered his voice. "Hello, Steve, how are you, _listen, this isn't the best time."_

"What?" Steve looked just as confused as the girl.

" _I was in the middle of something."_ John took a side-glance back at the girl, only to see the back of her head. Dumbfounded, John saw her laughing and touching the arm of another man, who had sat down on her opposite side. John recognised him as one of the pool players, who was now brushing his light blond hair out of his eyes, with his good-looking-in-a-rugged-way face alight and completely engrossed at what she was currently declaring in passionate tones.

John turned slowly back to Steve, who was looking at him with the most innocent face imaginable. "Well, thanks for that, Steve." He motioned to Vern, who was filling mugs. "Think I'll have another, Vern."

"You got it, Johnny." Vern pulled another glass out.

"You weren't trying to pick up that woman, were you?" Steve sat down, to John's mounting irritation. "I've found out that women on the rebound often have incredibly territorial exes. And women like _that_ usually go for the opposite of their current ex, which in your case would be significantly tall."

John didn't know which part of Steve's speech to note, and chose the one that didn't involve wanting to punch him in the head. "How do you know she's on the rebound?"

Steve sniffed loudly, looking suddenly sheepish. "I heard her talking for a bit."

"You were listening?"

"She wasn't exactly quiet."  
Vern slid over John's pint. "Hey, what'll it be?" He smiled at Steve.

"Nothing at the moment, thank you." Steve removed his gloves.

"Why are you here then?" John asked, frustrated.

"Just around," Steve said, leaning forward to read the customer created drink on the little blackboard. "Cold outside." He leaned back again, and exhaled wearily. He then gave John a look that was almost stern. "What are _you_ doing, drinking alone?"

"Well, had you not _just_ interrupted me, I might not have been."

"Pubs aren't exactly an advisable place to meet people."

"Well, that doesn't bode well for us, then, does it?"

Steve's brow furrowed. John realised how that sounded absolutely too late, and waved his hand in what he hoped was a dismissive fashion. "Nevermind. Has there been any progress on the case?"

"None. Though, I'm not given much access, since the case is now "out of my jurisdiction"." Steve was now the one that sounded frustrated.

"I'd think you'd be relieved to get it off your hands."

Steve glanced at him. "Well, yes, I am. But…I don't exactly want the killer coming back to Ireland, if he is indeed the same one I dealt with before. You can understand that. Its unfinished business, for me."

"Oh, I see." John sipped. "Would you be heading back there soon, then?"

"Might be."

John looked ahead. He didn't know exactly how to feel about that. Mostly nothing, relief if anything. But then, there was a small part of him that realised that he might miss Steve a little.

 _But,_ he thought, glancing back at the laughing, blond woman, _not much._

"You look annoyed." Steve noted. "Have I said anything exasperating?" He had a small smile on his face, and his tone was joking, as though the idea was absurd. Suddenly, John felt he could truly empathise with Steve's wife.

John laughed disbelievingly. "Are you serious? Steve, you are continuously doing things that are exasperating. Just now you managed to flawlessly separate me from a woman by doing nothing more then being here. Last week you attempted to pit me against my dead friend."

"That wasn't my intention." Steve said, sounding faintly alarmed. "I was simply going over every possibility of the situation, as an unbiased source." He looked down at the counter, and picked lightly at the varnish, which was flaking at the worn edge. "I was curious, afterwards. I read your blog."

"My…wait, my old blog?" John said, taken aback. "I'm surprised that's even there still! I…well, I haven't updated in awhile."

"I saw. Your last post…I'm assuming that was afterwards?"

John didn't answer. It was a stupid question. _He was my best friend and I'll always believe in him_ was what he'd written, in quite obvious past tense.

"I read the other posts as well." Steve continued, undeterred by John's silence. "The cases. Seemed…interesting."

"Doesn't seem like something that any hack could put together, does it?" John said finally, with more heat then he intended. _Calm down._ He cleared his throat. "Well, I suppose that's the closest account you can get of back then. I'm not the most reliable source now. No one is."

"I suppose not." Steve answered. John didn't know which part he was answering to, so he just assumed it was both. "Though, for the "deductions"…"

"What about them?"

"Well…it would've been a lot more convincing if there had been more written on how he came to his conclusions, if you don't mind me saying so."

 _Oh for Gods sake._ "Don't you think I know that _now?"_ John said heatedly. "Of course that makes sense two and a half bloody years after his death, but at the moment I didn't exactly have the time and energy to bombard him with questions! Though he no doubt would have explained it in great detail, with even more on the phenomenon of how no one else caught the tiny mark on a man's sleeve that told exactly how his marriage was ending!"

Steve nodded, though John knew he didn't have a clue what John had just said. "I suppose you're sticking by your last post, then."

"Of course I am."

Steve leaned forward. "Don't you find it odd, though, that when sticking by your word, you're going completely against it by not believing the last words he said?"

"Oh piss off, would you Steve?" John said, turning away and glaring at the bottles on the wall opposite. Some way or another, Sherlock's last words had leaked into the press, or at least a rough account. Whether their conversation had been overheard somehow, or someone had simply taken a very accurate shot in the dark, the newspapers had printed it to death, peppered with descriptions like "final proof" and "shocking confession." It was this that had fuelled the opinions of people like Donovan, and was used as what people thought was an infallible argument when faced with opinions like John's.

It was a long time before Steve spoke again. He must have realised that he'd well passed the point of going too far. He cleared his throat. "Look, John...I'm sorry if I'm…this is none of my business. It sounds as though you regret what happened…and you seem to miss him—"

"Of course I miss him." John looked back at Steve, now incredulous on top of his anger. "Clearly more then you can understand, since you apparently lack the observational skills to stop talking when someone looks like they want hurt you."

Steve fell silent.

For quite awhile they faced the front, with John moodily drinking his pint and Steve doing nothing. John ordered another, despite his dwindling funds, and resolved to walk home instead of his planned cab. Steve continued to sit quietly, not ordering anything. It was many minutes later that John finally broke the silence, intending to both alleviate the tension and to make one last point.

"And if you remember what I wrote on my last post," he said quietly, "I had said "believe _in_ him". I didn't say "believe him"."

"The difference being?" Steve answered, after a moment.

John cracked a smile. "He once fed me tea laced with what he believed to be mind altering drugs and let me think he was just being friendly. Of course I'm not going to always "believe him"."

Steve gave a small laugh, though he looked more then a little worried. The usual reaction to when John talked about the methods his old flatmate.

John heard a stool scrape beside him, and he knew the woman he had talked to earlier was getting up. "Thanks you sooo much!" she slurred to the other man. John wondered just how many drinks she'd managed to consume in that short amount of time. "I'll def'ly think about it!"

She tottered into John's view, heading for the door with uneven steps. He hoped she had some sort of way home besides driving or walking, because it didn't look like she could handle either. For a moment he wondered if he could offer a cab fare home. Then he remembered his decidedly empty wallet.

"Well, John, I did save you the trouble of getting her home on your wallet." Steve said, also watching her leave.

John raised his eyebrows, amused that they'd had the same thought, though with completely different takes. "It might have helped me in the long run."

"Considering her situation, what would come in the long run probably wouldn't be helpful to you. As of recently, that kind of thing seems more likely to end with a bullet."

John, who was still watching the woman, breathed a sigh of relief as a cab pulled up next to her and she clambered unsteadily inside. And as he watched it drive away and prepared to turn back, he noticed something on the ground. "She dropped something." John stood and walked over, bending to pick up the small rectangular piece of stiff paper.

"What is it?" Steve asked.

John went back to his stool, studying it. "A business card." He read it fully, and let out a laugh. "The bloke she was talking to her must have given it."

"What is it?" Steve asked again, sounding impatient.

"He's recommending a _therapist."_ John handed Steve the card. "Not the best come on, if you ask me. Though I can't exactly talk like I've had a lot of success. Maybe I should start handing out cards."

"He would most likely be recommending himself." Steve said, laying down the card. "Maybe he was offering therapy for her boyfriend. Though she didn't exactly seem grounded herself."

"I suppose." John looked to the pool tables, where the towheaded player had headed back to after the woman had left. The man's stubbled face had a smug look as he leaned over the table, shooting with the air of thinking himself an expert. Feeling annoyed, John picked up the card and read it again. "Dr Bart Hughes. The name sounds familiar."

"Not integrated in the personal circles of London's therapists?" Steve asked.

"Me? No, not as much. Though I really should, by now. This one advertises himself more then deals with patients, probably."

"Most likely, since he's here more often then not."

"Suppose it's a good place to pick up patients." John said, gesturing around him. "People with both problems and money to spend."

"Not that much."

"Well, I'm sure he'd take whatever they had." The moment John had seen the girl talking to the pool player he'd made up his mind to dislike him, purely on principal.

Steve took out his phone and started going through it. "Greg texted me. Saying they might have a lead on the case."

"What is it?" John asked, automatically interested.

"Samuel O'Neil's wife said rather more then she intended to, giving good reason to believe she was the one who set the hit on her husband."

"Anything on the actual hitman?"

"No. But hopefully she'll crack under the weight of a possible life sentence."

"Then again, people with nothing to lose often stay silent, just for the hell of it."

"True. There's also the issue that there won't be enough corroborating evidence without the hitman in custody. She wouldn't give them up any more then outright admit herself to be guilty."

John stretched and sighed. "So we're no closer, really."

"No." Steve said dourly.

"Well, that's heartening." John checked his watch. "I'll be heading off soon."

"Hmm." Steve was scrolling through his phone, his ruddy brow furrowed.

John looked past him to the window, and inwardly cursed himself for the extra pints. The weather had only gotten colder recently, and the sky had long darkened since he'd arrived. He zipped up his jacket, and again wished he had the foresight to buy that damn winter coat.

"You aren't walking?" Steve suddenly inquired, looking up from his phone.

"Yeah. Drank my cab fare, unfortunately."

"I'm going to be off as well. We can share a cab." Steve offered.

"Thanks, Steve. But I'm afraid I wouldn't be able to pay my half. It isn't a far walk."

"I insist." Steve said firmly. "Don't worry about the fare. You paid last time, I'd simply be returning the favour."

"Ah…thanks, then." John sat back, not unhappy to have escaped the bitter walk.

Steve slipped his phone back in his pocket. "Shall we be off, then?"

"Yeah. Wait." John turned subtly to look at the pool tables, and saw the blonde man fixing to leave. "Let's just wait for our pub therapist to be on his way."

Steve gave John an amused glance, then looked back at the pool player. John saw Steve suddenly look surprised. "The cues here must be extraordinary."

"Why do you say that?" John asked, bemused at the strange idea.

"Well, our therapist used a pub stick, yet he carries his own cue case."

John was able to see the player make his way to the door, and saw that Steve was correct, at least in the sense that the man was carrying a large leather pool stick case. "He probably keeps his business cards in there."

Steve smiled. "It would carry thousands."

"Probably lets loose that much in a night. Egotistical git."

Steve shook his head. "Your automatic loathing is unparalleled, John. Perhaps you should be the one to see a therapist."

At this, Steve's face suddenly lost its humour, and became quite blank.

John, not noticing the change in the bearded face, snorted at the suggestion. "God, no. I need another therapist like I need a…" he trailed off. _Wait._ He thought hard, trying to pinpoint why he unexpectedly felt a strange connection in his mind.

"John…" John looked up at his name, and saw Steve's now shocked expression. Then his gaze focused, and he grabbed John's arm with sudden urgency. "You were in the military. How compact could certain sniper rifles be?"

Resisting the urge to question, John searched his memory quickly, trying to get his thoughts in order. "I can't be sure, Steve. Quite compact. Enough to fit in a rucksack."

"Enough to fit in a pool stick case?" Steve asked, his eyes fiery through the scratched lenses of his spectacles.

For a moment, John just stared back, dumbfounded. He didn't know what to answer. _What the hell is he—_ and then, he was hit with realisation, like a blow to the head.

He snatched up the business card that he'd picked up off the floor and read it again, just to confirm. His mind reeled. _Good God._

"What is it?" Steve demanded.

"His name…" John said, surprised to find his voice calm, though with the slightest shake. "His goddamn name…I knew it sounded familiar…"

" _What?"_

"Dr Bart Hughes…a famous Dutchman in the sixties, died a decade ago…advocator of the ancient medical technique of _trephination_."

Steve looked at him, in a _how is this bloody relevant_ kind of way. "Which is?"

"The procedure of putting a hole in the patient's skull."

The two of them spent only a few seconds staring at each other, stunned. Then in a perfectly synchronised movement they leapt to their feet, knocking over both stools and nearly sending a barmaid over a table of food as they sprinted for the door.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for sticking around, my dudes! And of course, mucho thanks for the kudos and comments--every one is a little light that brightens my day.   
> This fic is pretty much copy/pasted in all its unedited-for-three-years glory, so if there are any glaring errors (glerrors, if you will), just let me know and I'll fix it post-haste!

"Which way?" John exclaimed, frantically turning about on the sidewalk, not seeing the blonde man in either direction.

"Left!" Steve took off down the sidewalk, with little hesitation.

John strove to keep up. "Why?" he yelled.

"Does it matter?" Steve shouted back, skirting around a large elderly woman, who gave a little scream as they went past.

"I'd like to know!"

"A hunch, then!"

"What?!" John nearly tripped over a small dog. The owner yanked it out of the way, looking horrified. "Should we not split up, take each way?"

" _No!_ " Steve didn't turn. "I'm sure he went this way! Back to Baker Street!"

"A hunch?!"

Steve didn't answer; he only continued his attempts at hailing a cab on the run.

Cab luck, unfortunately, wasn't with them that night. Their run continued all the way to Baker Street, and with every step John couldn't banish the thought that their quarry was more and more out of their reach. By the time 221 was within view John felt the air straining in his lungs, and his legs felt curiously numb.

"Keep by the building walls!" Steve panted, steering towards them. John obeyed, skimming the brick as they ran down the empty sidewalk. They were on the opposite side of the street where John's flat resided.

Steve kept going steadfastly, checking each door that they flew by, though for what John hadn't the slightest idea. He had never seen Steve so determined, and he never would have guessed the heavy build to move so fast and for so long. John didn't consider himself too far gone, yet he felt nearly drained, and even more so as he watched Steve's darting movements back and forth, from running to door to running again.

They were nearing the opposite of 221 when Steve let out a huff of excitement. "Here!" he hissed, motioning to the door he had quite suddenly stopped at.

Immensely grateful, John also came to a halt, and resisted the urge to bend over gasping with his hands on his knees. "Why…here…" he panted.

"The knob." He gestured to the knob on the plain door. John leaned over to look. "Do you see? The frost? It's been turned, and recently."

"Oh!" John saw that he was indeed right. Clear finger marks were upon the metal knob, melted through the frost as it was grabbed. "Good thinking!"

"Saw it on a programme." Without another word, Steve reached for the knob. In a manner completely contrasting the recent burst of speed, he turned it slowly, halting every time it gave the slightest noise. Finally, the door opened, with the smallest creak.

Darkness. John squinted, trying to distinguish shapes or figures in the gloom, but could only see the first few feet of faded green carpet. Suddenly remembering the reason they were there, John felt his heart quicken once more. He was hit with the overwhelming urge to have his pistol in his hand. Or perhaps something bigger.

Steve put a finger to his bearded lips, unnecessarily signalling John to be quiet. With a quick movement he darted inside, and John only hesitated a moment before silently following.

John didn't close the door behind him. The thought of complete darkness in the ominous place chilled his blood, as even the partial dimness was setting him on edge. Steve, however, soon remedied this, taking out his phone and finding a flashlight function. The light was brighter then John expected, and he now saw quite clearly the outline of a staircase. Without a pause Steve started up, staying to the sides, as with the sidewalk. John realised this to be a wise move; he supposed that creaking was invariably in the middle, where feet usually tread.

Steve moved quickly now, up two flights without a sound. John gripped the banister tightly, fearing his feet to be less skilful in staying silent. He breathed easier when Steve stopped climbing at the third floor, and stood still, looking at the apartment door.

It was only then that John knew this to be the right place; how else could they get into an apartment building, where the front door is usually locked? The man must have his own key, or else broke the lock somehow. The door they were facing was closed, yet John swore he saw a faint glow at the bottom, as though a small flashlight or candle was lit inside.

 _He must have taken a cab,_ John thought, his mind whirling to the insignificant details, as it often did when he was under pressure.

Steve turned off his phone and put it in his pocket, then slowly reached for the knob. John wanted to stop him, but held back. They had the element of surprise, which was their only advantage now. There was no longer the option of calling the police, which John now realised how stupid it was not to have called straightaway. Even the tapping of the keyboard on his phone would sound like castanets in the dead silence of the building.

Before taking hold of the knob, John saw Steve reach into the inside of his jacket. Without the slightest ruffle of cloth he brought out a pistol, and the sight of it gave John a rush of profound relief.

Holding the gun at the ready, Steve gripped the knob. He gave John a look, and John nodded reluctantly, wishing again for his own weapon, snugly hidden in his dresser drawer at home.

Steve started turning the knob, slowly, surgically. It went smoothly, miraculously with no sound, and John saw Steve smile with relief. And then, as the knob ended its revolution, the mechanism inside gave a resounding click.

John felt his heart in his throat, and for one ringing moment everything was frozen. Then, in a movement so sudden and quick it was nearly invisible, Steve shot backwards, away from the door, flinging out an arm that caught John's chest and forcing him nearly off his feet. A millisecond later a deafening _crack_ ripped through the silence, mingling with the splintering of wood, and John saw a hole explode in the door. Steve regained his balance and sank into a crouch, moving forward and hitting his shoulder against the door, which crashed open. Another shot rang out and John ducked as well, feeling pieces of drywall hit his back from the wall opposite the door.

Straightening, Steve raised his gun and fired, once, twice, three times. John ran forward, half with the intention to yank Steve to the ground again. But no blast followed. John looked into the dimly lit room, and just saw the man outlined against the window fall forward, first his knees then his face hitting the hardwood with a sickening crunch. Out of his slack grip fell a rifle, which clattered on the floor in front of him.

Upon seeing the rifle fall, John strode into the apartment and kicked it away, sending it sliding across the room. It went farther then he expected, being much lighter then he imagined when he first saw it. Though, on a quick second glace, he saw the characteristics required to collapse to a small bundle, small enough to fit in the poolstick case. The stock, the stand, the scope; all capable of folding in on themselves, or entirely removable. Though, the gun wasn't the thing occupying John's attention at the moment. He was more preoccupied with the man bleeding profusely on the floor in front of him.

Grabbing the man's jacket, John flipped him on his back. He saw straight away the blond-haired man was still alive, but his breathing was weak and uneven, and he felt that the pulse was feeble in his wrist. "Steve, hand me something to staunch the bleeding."

"Why?" the inspector replied coldly from the doorway.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" John asked angrily. "Give me something!"

There was a rustle, and John felt something soft hit the side of his head. He snatched it up and saw that it was Steve's scarf. He bundled it up and pressed it into the three close set bullet holes in the sniper's chest. "Call the Yard. Get them to send an ambulance. We want him alive; we want this bastard on trial."

John heard the sound of a number being dialled, and breathed a sigh of relief. He was shocked at Steve's cold blooded attitude, even if it was towards a murderer. _He must take the case seriously. Probably because it started near his home. Maybe he knew one of the victims._ John pressed the scarf harder, feeling the blood seep through. "Don't you die." he muttered. "You aren't getting away that easy."

"They'll be here within minutes." Steve said, slipping away his phone.

"Good. He won't last long without treatment. We need him to identify his clients, if anything."

While John did his damndest to keep the sniper alive, Steve moved instead towards the gun. Silently, without John noticing, he picked it up off the ground. It was an intricate design; extremely modern, lightweight, with collapsible bits that could fold down into the stock and barrel. Steve looked it over, studying the mechanics of the weapon closely. Fiddling with the scope, looking through it, pointing the gun at different parts of the room.

And then, he pointed it across the room, at the side of John's head.

His facial features twitched, taking on a look of livid triumph, glaring into the scope. John didn't turn; the man on the floor was fading fast, and it was all he could do to keep the blood in. For a couple of heartbeats Steve kept the gun pointed, and John swore under his breath, his eyes only on the ineffective compress and his blood soaked hands.

Then, out of the open window, a faint siren screamed, getting louder. Steve lowered the gun. His face was pallid under the beard and ruddy complexion, and though his expression was now neutral, his eyes burned with barely concealed hatred as he looked down to where John was treating the dying man.

"Steve, have you anything else?" John fairly yelled. "He's losing too much blood!"

Before Steve could answer, if he was even planning to, the man on the floor let out a gurgling gasp. His eyes glazed over, and his head fell to the side.

"Oh no you—" John rammed a thumb into his neck, feeling for a pulse. "He's gone. He's damn well gone."

No sooner had he uttered the words that the sound of thundering footsteps was heard on the stairs.

* * *

 

"A therapist. That was his front."

John watched the medical examiner draw a white sheet over the dead man. The pool player, one of the players he'd glanced over for months. One of the regulars at Peggy's. He felt sickened just thinking about it, so he instead focused on Steve, who had taken the liberty of explaining the situation to a stunned Lestrade.

"A therapist?" Lestrade repeated.

"The perfect excuse to hear people's problems, and the perfect place to find those people. A pub is the centre for the angry and desperate, no wonder he chose it as his hunting grounds."

"So, he found out if they had issues with other people…"

"And handed out his cards like fliers. He might have given them reasons to believe he was more then he said, or maybe he trusted the clue in the name to make the customers savvy. Either way, it was all within shadows. The people probably didn't even know for sure what they were paying for, though they most likely guessed."

"That must have been his card, then!" Lestrade said, amazed. "In the third victim's pocket! It probably came from his wife's purse. No wonder it didn't work when I called, he probably changed his number after every couple of hits."

"And that's why they were all within this area." John added, glancing out the window, where the front of 221 was just visible. "Nobody travels far from home to go to a pub."

"Good god…" Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, this certainly is an end not short on the dramatics."

"At least it's an end at all." John remarked. "It was mainly luck that closed it. Thank God he gave that woman his card." _And that she was drunk enough to drop it._

"Oh, give yourself some credit." Lestrade said good-naturedly. "Listen, are you two okay? No injuries? I saw that he'd taken a couple of shots at you."

"Just missed."

"Any shock?" Lestrade pressed.

John smiled wanly. "I've been through worse. Steve, you alright?"

"Fine." He didn't smile. He just slipped his hands in his pockets, looking around the room.

"We'll get a full statement tomorrow, yeah?" Lestrade glanced at John's hands, which were caked in dried blood. "There's a sink over there, John."

"Oh. Right." John went to the sink in the little kitchenette and scrubbed his hands, watching the brown water swirl down the drain. "All that effort, and he dies on me. I suppose we'll never get his account."

"Ah, we'll find enough evidence to get some of them, John. The important thing is that he can't continue."

"I suppose. Though Steve lost a scarf. Sorry, mate."

"It's expendable."

"We're going to be closing off the scene now." Anderson's voice drilled through John's eardrums like the buzz of a florescent light. "I'll have to ask you two to leave."

John didn't bother pointing out how very little Anderson's words meant, and turned to Lestrade instead. "Suppose we'll be off, then," he said, waving his hands to dry them, being careful to send a few flicks of water in Anderson's direction.

Lestrade shrugged, looking apologetic. "Yeah, there's not much more here." He yawned into his arm, looking around. "Gonna stay a bit, phone around, then I'm off home as well. Get some sleep that I've missed the past while."

"Right, well. You'll call tomorrow then?"

"Will do. And John, Steve," Lestrade gave a little salute. "Prepare to be heroes in tomorrow's papers."

"Oh, fantastic." John said with not a little sarcasm, as they left through the perforated door. "I'm looking forward to the calls I'll be getting tomorrow." _Harry's going to go mental. Again._

Steve didn't look very thrilled at the prospect either, but stayed silent as they made their way down the stairs. It was only when they had exited the apartment building onto the sidewalk that he spoke for the first time since leaving the scene. "Do you want to get something to eat?"

"Hmm? Something to eat?" John checked his watch. "It's nearly midnight, is anything even open?"

"I have one in mind." Steve gestured in an indiscriminate direction. "Its location is…odd, but the food is quite edible."

"Well, why didn't you say so." John said, smiling tiredly. "I do enjoy food that's edible."

Steve's phone vibrated. He took it out of his pocket, checked it, and put it back after silencing the ring. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Piss right off."

They walked silently for a bit longer down the frosty sidewalk, waiting for a cab to stop. Steve managed to finally hail one, and they got in, John gratefully sitting down for the first time since their wild chase began. Steve gave the address to the cabbie.

"I don't remember any restaurants in that area." John said, surprised. "Has it just recently opened?"

"No, it's hidden behind the main buildings. I told you it was in a strange spot."

"Ah." John settled back. "If I contract food poisoning from this place, Steve, I'm not going to be pleased." It was then that Steve suddenly became preoccupied with his phone.

There was no more talking after that; the cab stayed as quiet as the empty streets it drove down. It was as if the sudden conclusion to the horrific excitement of the case had settled them both into a haze of weary relief. Though as John looked out the window, he was surprised at the feeling of nostalgia that hit him just then, and he smiled sadly as he watched the blur of frozen London slip silently by.

* * *

 

Greg Lestrade had just finished the arduous task of filling in the Chief Superintendent, and hung up his phone with a feeling of relief. Stretching furtively, he took a few moments rest, and watched the forensics team pack up. He had been living off of less then five hours sleep a night recently, and he had exhaustion that was bone deep. He just wanted to go home and collapse into bed.

Though there was one more call he needed to make. With another insuppressible yawn, he put in a call to the police headquarters in Dublin. He needed the information that Steve had promised—and evidentially forgot—to send him, on the first victim and also the shootings they had experienced. The ID in this man's wallet had labelled him an Irishman, and Lestrade was willing to bet that it was indeed the same man, as Steve had guessed.

"Hi, this is DI Lestrade from London." He proceeded to put in his request, which the dispatch readily obliged, and promised to fax it as quickly as possible.

"Isn't a problem." she said cheerfully at his grateful thanks. "Anything else you need?"

"Think that about covers it. This case has been hell; I'm about ready to just conk out. If it wasn't for your inspector I'd still be up to my ears, to be honest."

"Our inspector?" she asked, sounding puzzled.

"Yeah," Lestrade said, surprised. "Steve Daniel. Helped quite a bit. Made the actual capture, as a matter of fact."

"Steve Daniel…" she mused. Lestrade heard the distant sound of her keyboard clacking. "Daniel, Daniel…no, we don't seem to have a Steve Daniel here."

Lestrade didn't answer for a moment. "No? But…" He tried to remember back when John had introduced Steve. He had said Dublin, he was sure…was he sure? But he also remembered Steve saying it once more to Anderson. Lestrade knew he hadn't misheard twice. "Does he go by a different name? Maybe he has some dreadful first name that he never uses except for official business."

More clicking. "Ah…no, doesn't look it," she said after a while. "No horrid names that I can see. There's an Aaron Daniel _son_ , but that's about it. And I know for a fact that Aaron's in the break room getting himself a muffin."

Suddenly, Lestrade didn't feel as tired as he did five minutes before. He thanked the dispatcher and hung up, feeling uneasy.

He tried to think of a logical explanation, but none surfaced in his fatigued brain. There was only one that his mind kept falling back on, and it was this that drove him to pull out his phone and place a call John's mobile.

He paced back and forth, listening to it ring, and after six he hung up, swearing under his breath. With an ominous feeling now in his gut, he sent him a text, and resolved to give it fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes, and if there was no reply by then, he was going to set a search. He only prayed that what his mind kept circling around was far from the truth.


	9. Chapter 9

"Your phone's ringing." Steve remarked, after a full five minutes of silence.

As there was no noise prior, save for the humming of the cab, John could just as clearly hear the vibrating of his own phone, apart from distinctly feeling it. "Yes, I believe it is. However, taking it out requires just a bit more effort then I'm willing to execute at the moment. I'll check it after we get out."

"We're comin' up to it now, gents." the cabbie called out.

The cab came to a halt next to a grungy Laundromat, and just as they were getting out John felt his phone vibrate again. Steve beckoned for John to follow him, and set off for a thin pedestrian road between the Laundromat and the building next to it. John hurried to keep up with Steve's long stride, while at the same time fighting to get his phone out of an awkward space in his pocket.

"Where's this— _dammit—_ place?" John asked, nearly dropping his phone on the pavement as he finally got it out.

Steve murmured something that sounded like "Not far" while keeping up his brisk walk, not looking back.

By this time they were in a little secluded walking road between two lines of uninhabited-looking buildings, grimy windows sparsely dotted along the walls. Rubbish lined the edges and corners, and the whole place generally felt as though it didn't see a lot of human traffic. The only sign of habitation took the form of spray-paint across the mildewed brick. It certainly didn't look to be a place to house a restaurant of any kind, edible food or no, though Steve continued to walk purposely forward, undeterred by the adverse surroundings.

"We could stop for a—" Steve began to say, just as John halted midstep and said "Stop for a moment—".

Steve, who had by this time stopped as well, looked back at John, puzzled. John returned his gaze unblinkingly from a dozen steps back. His expression had drastically changed; it was now tense. In his hand was his phone, Lestrade's text glowing on the screen.

"'Not an inspector from Dublin'." John said, echoing the text. He held up his phone and wiggled it slightly, raising his eyebrows. "Text from Lestrade."

Steve's face did something particular; it stayed the same surprised look, yet it now seemed rigid, almost as though it had frozen in place. It held this for more then a few seconds, before morphing back into his usual inscrutable expression.

"Is it true, Steve?" John asked, keeping his tone casual, though he felt his heart beating fast against his ribs. "Is Lestrade completely gone off, or is it true?"

Steve didn't answer. John clenched his phone tight in his hand. "Nothing? Well then, enlighten me. What the hell does he mean?" No answer. John took a step forward. "If you aren't an inspector, where did you get that information? How did you know about the sniper, the cases?" He felt his voice rise. "Who the bloody hell are you, Steve?"

Steve's glasses flashed as he looked around, ever so slightly. "I suppose this will have to do…" he murmured, almost too quiet for John to catch.

"What? _What will do?"_ John felt his panic spike, though he tamped it down under his sudden fury. It was the anger that kept him in his place, the abrupt feeling of betrayal that even he didn't understand. And then, just clouded underneath was the buzz of fear, the urge to run as he faced this now unknown man who towered over him. It was then that he was also hit with the realisation of their complete isolation. Steve had brought him back here, to this desolate area, where there was clearly no "restaurant"…

John took a step back, at the same time Steve took one forward. John's heart hammered, and for the second time that night he cursed himself for not having his gun. In hindsight it seemed incredibly dense to leave it at home, especially recently—and especially when considering the many, many times that being armed would have been helpful in the past.

Realising then that running was futile, John did the only thing he could. Facing the man in front of him, he firmly stood his ground, with the straight back and set face of a soldier.

Steve didn't take another step. He seemed to now be studying John closely. John glared back, suddenly hating everything about this man; his clothes, his face, his fluty, nasal accent...he clenched his fists tighter, vowing that whatever happened, he would at least give as much hell as he possibly could.

Steve stood still for a few moments more. Then, he let out a sigh that was visible in the windless cold.

"I'm sorry, John," he said in a low voice, and he reached into his inner coat pocket.

John knew he didn't have time to stop him, or leap out of the way, for that matter. He saw the hand go into the pocket and his mind blanked; in fact, the only thing that ran through it, in its half-delusional panic, was _when Paul left, I hope he took his bloody milk with him._

* * *

Lestrade didn't even bother to fake interest in what the ballistics investigator was saying. For all he knew the man could have been explaining how often he was boffing the Yard's secretary. All Lestrade could think about was the phone in his pocket, and how it had not rung in the ten minutes since he had texted. Every minute or so he'd take it out and check, just in case the ringer magically decided to stop working. And every time he'd shake his head and put it back, feeling his heart sink a little lower.

* * *

When John had been shot in Afghanistan, he remembered clearly thinking as he was carried off on a dusty gurney; "Never again. Never ever again." He'd vowed to never again find himself in the path of a bullet.

Of course, the moment he'd thought himself healed he was itching to get back on his feet, back on the field once more, his vow seeming petty and cowardly then. Though, he'd allowed that the loss of blood could have accounted in part for his dampened spirit at the time.

However, once he found out the true extent of his injury, psychosomatic or no, he never had the chance to negate his promise. With his limp crippling his life as well as his leg, he believed that his vow would be fulfilled, unintended as it was. He never dreamed he would ever have to face the barrel of a gun again. After he was discharged, he knew that nothing would ever happen to him, good or bad.

But irony took its liberties on his life then, because it was only after his return to civilian life that he found himself facing the open ends of innumerable guns. Time and time again he'd been pointed at, once with several rifles and a vest of explosives on his chest to boot. And every single time, he'd think back to his original vow, and remember exactly why he made it.

He didn't have time to remember, however, when Steve's hand slipped in his pocket. The shock of the betrayal, and also the general exhaustion from the night, had rendered John immobile. Of course, he had never stood at gunpoint in negative weather before, so perhaps it was partly for literal reasons that he was frozen in place.

As great as the shock was, he managed to feel a second, less powerful wave when Steve brought out not a weapon, but a harmless bundle of paper.

On second glance, John realised it was the very same sheaf of documents that Steve had been reading off his information on the case. He looked from the bundle to Steve's face, which was unreadable as he focused on unfolding the papers and flattening them the best he could without a surface to put them on.

Had he been thinking clearly, John might have noticed the inviting opportunity to tackle Steve to the ground while he was preoccupied, or at least make a good attempt to leg it. But the papers in Steve's gloved hands were a sudden mystery that kept him from doing either.

Steve looked up, meeting John's gaze, and held out the papers. His expression didn't change.

Curiosity was burning through the fear, and John found himself moving forwards. He took the packet, his eyes still locked on the other man's, on guard for any sudden attacks. None. The moment the papers were out of his possession Steve moved back a few paces, taking on his usual stance, his hands in his pockets.

John looked down on the papers in his hand, and his brow furrowed. He stared, perplexed now. What was on the papers was completely off from what he expected. He flipped over the first sheet. It took a few moments of studying before his face abruptly paled. He flipped over the second. Then the third.

"No…" he said in a low voice. He looked up, his face completely ashen. He shook his head. "No…this isn't…"

Steve moved forward, a hand half-raised.

John stepped back, his fingers clenching the papers tight. "No, stop. Don't come near me." he said, his voice cracking. Steve stopped immediately, as though meeting a brick wall.

John looked down again at the papers crumpled in his hand. "You bastard." he said hoarsely. Steve didn't move. John looked up, and his face overtaken with raw and complete rage. He felt the papers drop to the ground, and clenched his fists. "You utter _bastard!"_

"John—" Steve began to say. But he couldn't finish. John had taken the few necessary steps forward and punched him, sending the larger man backwards. Staggering, Steve fell to the ground, looking dazed.

" _You son of a bitch!"_ John yelled, his blood pumping fast in his veins, pounding in the knuckles that met the side of the other man's skull. _I'll do it again, too._ He felt himself shaking, and he turned away, grabbing his hair with his hands, trying to calm himself down.

Steve felt the side of his head gingerly, wincing. "John, I'm sorry, it was necessary." he spoke up to John's turned back. "It was _necessary."_

At those words, John felt his stomach clench tightly, his chest constricting, making it difficult for him to breath. But it wasn't the words that had hit him. Steve's voice had inexplicably changed; the accent had disappeared, the tone had lowered. It was a voice that spoke of vials and blood, of impatience and boredom and lies…

John turned around abruptly, and strode back to where Steve was still sprawled on the frozen concrete. Grabbing the bewildered-looking man by the jacket, John hauled him to his feet, and hardly let him regain his balance before pulling him into a tight hug.

John felt him go rigid with surprise, and John knew he'd been expecting something quite different, more along the lines of John's initial reaction. But after a few seconds, John felt arms around him as well.

It was, as he had said only moments before, necessary.

* * *

Lestrade was just dialling in a number for one of his men when his phone _beeped_ with a new message. He quickly ended the call before it could ring, and checked the text. He let out a huge breath of relief and intense irritation.

_It's all fine._

_Took you bloody long enough. What's going on? What's with Steve?_

_I'll explain later. Sorry, gotta go, getting a cab._

Lestrade let out another annoyed huff. The officer from ballistics who was holding the snipers rifle in his gloved hands—and had apparently been explaining something about it to Lestrade—looked scandalised. "Not you," Lestrade said impatiently.

The man didn't look convinced. "Pardon me, sir," he said stiffly, "I was just going over the unique qualities of the murderer's weapon, them being partly the reason we found it so hard to track him down. Collapsible parts, lightweight material, digital scope with auto focus and recognition software, custom case made to look like a billiard stick case…"

The man didn't seem to notice that Lestrade was beyond listening. He had sent a few more messages, asking for more information, with no replies. _Must be a damn good explanation,_ he thought crossly, tucking away his phone.


	10. Chapter 10

John hadn't even slipped his phone completely in his pocket before it began buzzing again. Lestrade, evidently, wasn't going to be so easily evaded; it took three more unanswered texts before he resigned to the fact that he would just have to wait.

They had begun to walk back, rather than hailing a cab; it wasn't far to the flat. John stayed a few steps ahead, walking fast, not looking back at the man silently following him. The night was well below freezing, but John didn't feel cold, exactly. He was having a hard time feeling anything but numbing shock, and it was under its effects that he didn't talk for a good while. He could feel the tension building the longer he kept silent, but he just didn't trust himself to speak yet; he didn't know exactly what he'd do until he regained some of his composure.

Then again, John was going to have to talk soon. It was either that or punch him again.

He decided to go with the easiest question first; technical details. Ones that didn't involve reasons, or what had happened before, or all that happened after. Just inconsequential facts.

He slowed marginally, and they fell into step. "How? How did you do it?" His voice was still slightly rough—shouting had done his throat no favours.

Steve—no, _not_ Steve—looked at John, then back ahead. "It wasn't difficult. You know the right people, they can perform miracles."

John flinched involuntarily at the last word. _Miracle. One last miracle._ "Well, I'd appreciate it if you could enlighten me."

"It's unimportant, John. A truck, a body…Molly helped set it up, not many people involved were exactly knowledgeable of their roles. Nobody, really."

"Oh, Molly was, though, was she?" John said, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk and staring at him disbelievingly. He stopped as well, looking back at John, his expression hidden under the beard and spectacles. "Molly knew you were alive, she knew this entire time. For God's sake, Sherlock, you trust Molly, yet you don't trust me?"

"It wasn't a matter of trust." Sherlock muttered, eyeing around them. Or John imagined he was; only then did he realise what an exceptional job the clouded lenses did disguising the eyes behind them. "It was a matter of who worked in a morgue. And to be fair, Molly only knew I was alive a bit longer then you did."

"What? Why?"

"She never saw me again afterwards. She _did_ see the empty truck, with just a little blood, and I hope assumed the worst." He said this in the same tone he used when explaining to John, step by step, how he managed to break the coffee maker by running corrosive chemicals through it.

 _Unbelievable._ "Thought this all out, didn't you?" John asked indignantly.

Sherlock fixed him with a sardonic look, obvious even under the disguise. "It is a habit of mine."

John let out an unamused laugh. "So…nobody knew. You just happened to roll out of a moving truck—"

"—and into another, kindly provided by my always reliable brother." Sherlock finished, sarcasm frosting the edge of his voice. "He was the one person that did know everything. He's kept secrets larger."

 _Yeah, he's also let them loose._ John shook his head.

Sherlock gave a sniff of amusement. "My thoughts exactly. I'd go so far as to say he owed me."

John started, then looked back to Sherlock, amazed.

They began walking again. John was still having trouble wrapping his head around everything, and wondered for the umpteenth time if he was actually dreaming. Or unconscious—maybe he'd slipped on some ice and whacked his head on a fire hydrant. Perhaps he'd gotten the wrong drink at the pub and inadvertently ingested someone else's drugged pint, and was in the throes of a hyper-realistic hallucination. Even if that wasn't the case, the adrenaline from the night, plus the fact that it was around one in the morning, didn't give John much confidence in the reliability of his senses.

"Alright then," he said abruptly, "why then? _Why_ did you do it?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He just continued to walk steadily forward.

John felt his anger rise again, with the pain of the past years filling his mind. The first few days—hell, the first _week—_ staying at Harry's, with her worried looks barely memorable through the haze, all while knowing that he'd eventually have to return to the flat, but avoiding it for weeks because it was just too damn hard. The slow regression back into everyday life, into a linear existence that should have been familiar, and instead felt completely alien. He remembered the constant stream of inquiries, and then, the one sneer from a young, cocky doctor that went too far, and the fight that lost him his job.

He recalled the ache he felt, which had lessened over time, but never really left. It was a grief that went farther then losing someone—the burden of that last memory had clouded all the rest, the uncertainty like a book with its last few pages ripped out and burned. It left John with nothing solid—nothing to hold onto from the best period of his life, and the best friend he'd ever had.

As the memories flooded through him, it was only by pure grit of self control that he managed to keep from shouting. "Christ, Sherlock, answer me!"

"John, calm down." Sherlock said in a low voice.

" _Calm?_ I _am_ calm, Sherlock, this is me calm. Or at least as much as I can be, considering the circumstances." He stopped talking as a woman walked by in the opposite direction, taking no notice of the two men. No sooner had she passed by that John began again, speaking in a low hiss. "At least clear up that little mystery for me, would you? Forgetting these past two and a half _years_ that I've gone through thinking you were dead, and how that's been for me, at _least_ give me the reasons why."

"He threatened me," he said shortly.

"He threatened you. As in, he threatened to kill you if you didn't kill yourself?"

"Not exactly."

"Well, good, because that couldn't make less sense."

Sherlock abruptly took out his phone, looked at it, snorted, and shoved it back in his pocket. "Well, isn't that a _tragedy_ ," he muttered under his breath.

"Sherlock."

"Hmm?"

John threw up his hands, in a _for the love of God_ kind of way. "Really—"

"He was going to kill you. That was his plan."

John blinked, and nearly stopped walking again. "What?"

Sherlock exhaled, as though steeling himself for the long haul. "And Ms Hudson. And Lestrade. The last two I hadn't expected at first, but as for the first threat it was what I had anticipated from the beginning."

" _Anticipated?_ You knew this was going to happen? All of it?"

"To an extent." Seeing John's face out of the corner of his eye, he added, "Moriarty was never subtle about the fact that he would one day try and ruin me, John. Surely you picked up _that_ little clue."

"Yes, but…" John was still in the dust. "If you knew he was going to have you killed…why did you go to him? Why the hell would you even risk it?"

Sherlock gave him the look John was all too familiar with; one that suggested he'd missed the obvious by a hilarious amount. "There wasn't any stopping him, John, not until he believed he won. If he'd been arrested, or killed, then he already had half a dozen plans set up, with no way of retracting them. It was a game, and I had to do everything in my power to win. And that eventually meant, as I had suspected from the beginning, my death."

"You suspected."

"And I was right."

"How long, exactly, did you know this?" They had arrived at John's flat, but there was no way in hell he was going in just yet. John grabbed Sherlock's sleeve, jerking him to a stop. "Because I don't exactly remember you mentioning it."

"It had to be believable."

"You didn't trust me to go along with it, then?" John asked, incredulous. "You thought that I'd be so daft that I'd go around, telling everyone?"

"I already said—"

"—and you trusted Molly, of all people. Molly, who had _dated_ Moriarty, if you've forgotten—"

"— _Molly_ wasn't on his radar. I already mentioned that he threatened your life, along with Ms Hudson and Lestrade. However, I'm sure the sharpest eyes were on you. He had a sniper tracking your every move, every word, every expression. If there was even the _slightest_ suspicion that you knew more then you did, the entire plan would fall apart."

The wind picked up suddenly, shuffling dead leaves across the icy ground. Sherlock looked away, towards the flat. "By 'falling apart'," John said quietly, after a few moments, "you mean—"

"If there was any hint that the suicide was a set up, the sniper would have killed you, right there. It was hard enough setting up a fake suicide in a crowded street; I couldn't risk the truth getting out in a way that could have been avoided so easily."

John pressed his lips together, irritated that he couldn't think of a response. Trust Sherlock to twist anything into a perverse kind of sense.

"Not to mention," Sherlock continued, "your performance had to be convincing even before that, when we were talking on the phone."

John remembered, all too clearly. The haunting phone call, Sherlock weeping, trying to convince John that he was a fraud, the last words… He knew now, he finally knew, that it was what he had believed, what he had hoped. But then, he realised that Sherlock had brought up another issue in need of explanation. "Yes, Sherlock…why was _that_ necessary?"

Sherlock exhaled a plume of smoke. "John, just _think_ ," he said impatiently. "It wasn't only that I had to die, it was that I had to die a fake. That was the whole point. Of course, you had to make that as difficult as possible."

John was finally starting to understand. All of it…it was all a plan, all of it, to get out of the intricate trap Moriarty had placed. _A magic trick._ John remembered how much he'd denied, how he wouldn't listen, and with a cold feeling in his stomach realised that he'd been under a microscope; in the crosshairs of a rifle the entire time. "Well," he finally said, "that was as realistic as it could have been, if Moriarty knew as much as he seemed to."

"Well, I'm sure of it, being as we wouldn't be standing here if it wasn't."

There was another silence. John looked into the smoky lenses of the glasses, and tried in vain to see his friend, but the disguise was too effective. If it wasn't for his voice, John seriously would have wondered if it wasn't all just a trick. "Moriarty…"

"Killed himself."

"Why?"

"He valued the game more then his own life, evidentially. It was his final move."

"Right. His final move was to kill himself, and yours was to fake it. And you did that admirably. But what I don't get, what the real issue for me is," John fought to keep his voice low. "Why, Sherlock, did it take you _two and a half bloody years to come back?"_

Sherlock looked weary, as though this was what he had been waiting for the entire night. "We should really get inside." he said evasively, glancing at the flat again.

"Don't think you can dodge this one, Sherlock, you knew damn well it was coming— "

"Inside." Sherlock interrupted.

Before John could argue, Sherlock had turned on his heal and headed for the door. Not wanting to risk waking Ms Hudson, John refrained from shouting, and settled for following Sherlock in hot pursuit.

Sherlock opened the door, with what John recognised as his old keys, and paused. He turned to John, giving him an icy stare. "The _locks_ are the same, John?"

"What?"

"Did it not strike you as odd that my keys were never recovered? How could you have missed that?"

"It wasn't my top priority, Sherlock." John countered, cottoning on. "I was sort of preoccupied, remember? To be honest I'd thought you had lost them. Wouldn't have been the first time."

With a huff of irritation Sherlock swept inside. John shook his head as he closed the door behind them.

They went upstairs quietly, not wanting to wake Ms Hudson. But the moment the flat door closed John faced Sherlock, his face set, waiting for an answer to his question.

"The period afterwards…that was the slight snag that Moriarty had created in killing himself." Sherlock looked around, absentmindedly tossing his keys in the air a few times before lobbing them onto a chair. "It wasn't an end, his death. It was, as I said before, his final move. He had employed the assassins to keep serving him afterwards, and that posed a problem."

"Because he couldn't call them off." John said slowly.

"Yes, exactly. While they were still in the shadows, I couldn't risk coming back. For the past few years…I'd been tracking down the remnants of Moriarty's web."

For the next while, Sherlock briefly and haltingly took John through the past two and a half years he'd been gone. It took more then a little prodding from John in order to get a full picture; Sherlock was dead set on skimming over anything he described as "extraneous", which basically included everything but the moments he made pivotal deductions or discoveries.

Eventually, though, John cobbled together the story. Hiding, traveling, gathering data, investigating, forever searching…Sherlock explained that the first two assassins, the ones that had been assigned to Ms Hudson and Lestrade, were found and detained within the first month by Welsh police, with the aid of a mysterious inspector from London.

The third assassin, as Sherlock grudgingly admitted, was more difficult. That was what had taken the bulk of the following years, what had required him to travel seemingly everywhere, what forced him to adopt multiple aliases to avert suspicion. It always seemed that the killer was forever on the instep, always ahead, having just slipped away once Sherlock arrived. It was this one man, one single man, that had held him back, prevented his return…

"And?" John said, as Sherlock took a pause. "Did you find him?"

Sherlock fixed him with a look, then continued looking around the flat, as he'd done periodically throughout his entire narrative. "Well, John, I can tell your skills for deduction do not flourish late at night."

John wasn't in the mood to be belittled; his nerves were completely fried. "Sherlock, so help me—"

"Yes, I found him." Sherlock interrupted. "And I killed him."

"Did you?" John asked, taken aback.

"You were there, John. It was only a few hours ago."

There was silence. Sherlock picked up a crystal paperweight, turning it about in his hand, before placing it back exactly where it had been before.

"Are you telling me…" John said quietly.

"It isn't coincidental that I chose tonight to come back."

John's mind reeled. The sniper, the one that had killed all the people…the therapist... _bloody hell. He had been hired to kill me._ John rubbed his face. "And I tried to keep him alive…" he muttered. He remembered how he'd asked for something as a compress, how he was shocked at Steve's ice cold wondered if the man was alive long enough to recognise him. The man who was his target, trying to save him. "How do you know it was him?"

"I was on his trail, obscure as it was. Though I wasn't absolutely certain until I examined the rifle. Moriarty supplied his boys well, evidentially."

"What do you mean?"

"The rifle was extremely high tech, as you probably already guessed, judging by its compacting abilities. But the scope was all I needed. It was digital—a small computer, essentially—with storage capabilities and facial recognition software, among other things. It had the ability to store information on hits, dead or alive, and would bring up the information at will. The easiest way to do so"—he put up his hands, miming the act of looking through the scope of a rifle—"was to put the victim's face in the crosshairs."

"And I was in there?"

"Yes."

John nodded, his face impassive, though inside he felt slightly sick. "Was he here this entire time?"

"'Course not. He only came here a few months ago, after I nearly got him in Dublin." Sherlock looked aggravated, and he began pacing back and forth. "Of course the clues are obvious _now._ Stupid. How could I have missed…"

"Sherlock." He stopped pacing and looked up at John, who was looking at him with his eyebrows raised. "Is this really an issue now?"

"It might not be for you, John, but when a killer I'd been tracking for more then two years slips through my fingers, again, it's an issue for me." He began pacing again, tapping his fingers on his thigh in agitation. "Not to mention that not a few days after he got away, I get information of a man shot dead in London."

"What, O'Neil? The Irish victim?"

"Well, I didn't know anything else at that time; I just set off for London. Of course, after I found the rest of the information, an inspector from Dublin seemed the logical choice for an identity."

"A _Welsh_ inspector from Dublin?"

Sherlock waved an impatient hand. "I had an Irish accent before. I couldn't risk the sniper recognizing anything."

John nodded. "Well…you convinced me."

" _That_ was absolutely necessary. Talking to you was the most risky thing I could have done. Now that we know he was there, in the pub…it was very lucky that he didn't become suspicious."

"Maybe he didn't think you would do something so stupid."

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a small grin. "It's possible."

"And why _did_ you? Talk to me, that is?" John crossed his arms and leaned against a chair. "Why did you even come to the pub I was at? I've seen you there, before. You knew I went there often."

"Precaution."

John smiled, remembering the text from what felt like so long ago. "You couldn't have stopped a bullet."

He waved a hand again. "All his other victims were alone. More or less."

 _More or less._ John remembered the second victim, shot within seconds of passing him. _Well, at least he got a few feet._ "So you think the risk of him taking a shot at me for old times sake was more then him suspecting you were alive?"

He stopped pacing, at looked at John. "No, don't you see? He already had his suspicions, before I even arrived. Think about it!"

"Think about…what, exactly?"

"Every one of his recent victims—there was a _pattern,_ John!" Sherlock talked fast, in the tone he usually used when explaining his thoughts; frustrated how nobody had somehow been able to read them. Hearing it come out of Steve's mouth was still something that John wasn't getting used to. "A loose one, obviously, and they were clearly still hired jobs, but he most likely picked them at his leisure. Think! Every single one was a man, late thirties or early forties, who wasn't particularly tall."

"That…isn't an uncommon description, Sherlock." John said, though suddenly feeling quite cold.

"They were also killed near or on Baker Street."

_Jesus. He's right._

Sherlock stared absently across the room. "I'm wondering—and now, I don't suppose I'll ever know—whether he was sending a message. Wanting to draw me out." Sherlock put his fingertips to his mouth, looking at the wall, obviously in deep thought.

John let the silence go on for a full minute. "Sherlock," he finally said.

He didn't answer.

"Sherlock."

He jerked a bit, and glanced at John, through the translucent lenses of the glasses.

John gave him a look that said _you done?_ One that felt as familiar as an old glove.

As if only just noticing what he'd been doing, Sherlock broke out of his reverie, blinking as though emerging from a darkened room and into a lighted one. He turned away, took out his phone and began checking through it mechanically.

"You know," John said quietly, talking to his back. "You still could have given me a hint. Something." John wasn't even going to begin on his return as Steve. That he'd had the nerve to be in the flat, to talk to John about everything, without even an inclination towards a clue…John didn't know whether to be furious or just amazed. He settled on the former.

Sherlock began typing a text. "I decided against it." His tone was cavalier, although John could see his fingers tighten on the phone.

"Why? Because you think I'd faint in public?" John shook his head. "I'm not saying you should have made a grand bloody entrance—"

"—it doesn't need to be a "grand bloody entrance"to be pointlessly dangerous—"

"—a _text,_ Sherlock, isn't dangerous. Unless I had a habit of shouting them aloud while I read—"

"—John, where did you put my pocket knife?" Sherlock inquired, looking at the mantle with some concern.

"Could we stay on topic, please?"

Sherlock turned abruptly. "Don't you think I—" he stopped, mid-exclamation. He returned his attention to the phone. When he spoke again, his voice had settled back into his usual tone. "I _did_ consider it. You should know my methods by now. In the end I decided that it was too risky; phones can be lost, or stolen. And even if there was a way…I didn't see the point in anyone knowing, if I ended up dying anyway."

This unexpected turn resonated, and left John quiet for a few moments.

Sherlock had brought up a point that he hadn't considered. Was it easier, then, that John had not known, that he'd begun moving on? That he'd remained ignorant to the truth that his friend had lived, but was balancing on the thinnest of wires, one that could snap at any given day? Had he known and something had gone wrong…well, he'd be in the same position he'd found himself two and a half years before.

"For future reference, Sherlock," he said, his voice low, "I'd like to know."

Sherlock didn't answer.

After a moment, John shook his head and walked to his sidetable, where he'd noticed a scrap of paper before. It was a note from Paul, hastily scribbled. _Dear John, I forgot to say that I left the milk in case you needed it. It's in the fridge._

John stared at this note, confusion mounting as he wondered why Paul didn't simply tell him before he left. Then John realised; Paul had come back to the flat after John had gone, presumably just to tell him that one last piece of information, and felt it so absolutely necessary that he'd left a note.

John put it in his pocket. The moment he had the chance, it was going on the fridge.

There was a flurry of staccato tapping behind him, and John turned to see Sherlock furiously typing on his phone. With a deep scowl on his face he sent a message, and threw the phone on the chair next to his keys.

"Wife giving you trouble?" John asked.

Sherlock gave him a look that was astonishingly puzzled—a look not suited for his face, no matter what one he was wearing—before his expression cleared once more. "No. Though, it seems as though my sister is becoming quite irritated that her beauty's sleep is being compromised, it being "two in the bloody morning" and I've not returned home from my walk yet."

There was a beat of silence. Then, the tension in the room was broken as they both began giggling.

"Tell Mycroft that you're staying out tonight, and he can go to bed." John said, laughing still at the mental image of Sherlock's prim older brother sitting in bed and glaring at his phone, becoming increasingly annoyed as the night wore on.

"I did. I also turned off my phone. I'd advise you to do the same if you want any sleep tonight."

"You told him you're here?"

"No, but he'll figure it out soon enough, if he hasn't already. John," Sherlock looked suddenly uncomfortable. Very uncomfortable. He looked away, to the wall, the same wall that displayed the bullet riddled happy face which Ms Hudson had kept "meaning to repaper", and yet still remained untouched. "Don't…think that all this hasn't…crossed my mind. I…" He stopped, his expression almost pained.

It was then that John realised he didn't need to hear it. Not tonight. "Its fine, Sherlock." Sherlock looked at him, his face still uncertain and uneasy. "Really," John added. Though he didn't know the whole story, John understood his friend well enough to know that an apology—if John desired one at all—would develop over time, without the cumbersome weight of words.

Sherlock nodded. Though his expression didn't drastically change, John thought he saw his friend's shoulders relax just a little, as though an invisible weight was suddenly lifted off.

Pacing again, Sherlock continued to study the flat; gathering data, John supposed, on what had happened since he left. Well, whatever he could gather from things like the slightly moved table and the unwashed mug that sat on it. Which probably, John realised, was quite a lot. All the while he scratched at his beard, something John had noticed he had been doing all night, though he remembered the action even as he knew him as Steve. "Is there anything of mine left in the flat?" he asked abruptly.

"What? No, I don't—I think Mycroft took everything, actually—"

"He was thorough, then. No matter." He took off quite suddenly for the stairs, hurtling up them a few steps at a time. John heard a door being opened, then some rustling, followed by a few distinct clunks as things undoubtedly fell over. _Well, I'm going to be missing one of my shirts tomorrow._ John just hoped he chose one of the many that he'd already spilled multiple acids on, that John basically kept to make his closet look fuller then anything else.

John wandered over to the window and looked out, thinking. Vaguely he heard Sherlock come down the stairs again and slam the door to the bathroom. John felt an unexpected weariness, and shut his eyes for a moment, leaning against the sill.

John broke out of his daze when he heard the bathroom door open, some ten minutes later. "No point staring out there, John, as of tonight there's no longer anything interesting."

"Somehow, that doesn't exactly bother me." John turned, and for a moment he froze, staring.

Sherlock gave him a strange look, and in the back of his mind John knew that it was probably disconcerting to be on the receiving end of a prolonged blank gaze, but for the moment John didn't care. It was only then that he was hit with the full realisation that, as he knew now, he had been subconsciously doubting the entire night. The wig, glasses, and beard had vanished, along with whatever else made up the disguise that had fooled everyone so thoroughly. John felt an unexpected wave of emotion at seeing the familiar face; though thinner, and somewhat more haggard, it was only then that John knew it wasn't somehow a hoax.

John smiled and turned back to the window. It was either that or hug him again.

"What?" Sherlock asked suspiciously, obviously seeing the reflection.

"Nothing…just…I don't think I'll miss Steve." John stuck his hands in his pockets.

"Oh." John could sense him smiling as well. He heard Sherlock walk around, pick up something, only to throw it right back down, obviously unimpressed. It was probably the novel John had been reading. "Well, it's a relief to talk without having to measure every word. It's completely exhausting, not to mention pointless. The world would run a lot more efficiently if people didn't screen their thoughts for the sake of being _polite."_ He spoke the last word with the same disgust a child would put into the word "vegetable".

"That, or World Wars would be in the double digits." John remembered Steve's strange way of talking; normal at most times, while at others just seemed…odd. Now thinking of it, John was amazed that Sherlock was able to pull it off; to the extent that John wasn't even suspicious. Then again, he wouldn't have exactly been expecting it. _He was friendly to Anderson. No, I'd have never guessed._

"Hmm…" he agreed thoughtfully. John turned to see him wander over to the couch. John noted with relief that he'd picked a shirt with discoloured spots on the sleeves. He reached behind the couch, and pulled out the old, dusty case—a case that held the single thing Mycroft had forgotten in his purge of the flat. Of course, it didn't help that John had hidden it under the couch cushions. "I suppose you never had the thought to tune it once in awhile?"

"I don't know how to work that thing, Sherlock, I'd probably end up breaking it in half."

"True." He unsnapped the case and pulled the instrument out, it's wood still miraculously shining after years in the dark. He began turning the pegs, but then stopped. He looked up at John. "Of course, I'm assuming I can touch it now?"

That took a moment to sink in. Then, they both burst out in peals of laughter. The built up tension from the night caused it to go on for some time, and it was only when John heard three distinct _thunks_ from the floor below did they manage to quiet down.

"Ms Hudson still uses the broom, I hear." Sherlock noted, still grinning as he tweaked the strings.

"Hasn't needed to for awhile." John sat down in his chair, after picking up the keys and the phone and throwing them onto Sherlock's. "Though I don't think she'd mind as much if she knew the reason." He nodded to the violin. Sherlock finished tuning the strings, and picked up the bow.

The music that emerged seemed to warm the flat, perhaps from a chill it had carried for the past few years. John relaxed in the chair, smiling happily, if not a little tiredly. It was a simple tune, though as familiar as the skull on the mantle; Sherlock had composed it long before their arrival at Baker Street. In fact, John remembered it being played on the very first night he'd moved in. At three in the morning. He wondered if Sherlock understood the irony, or if he simply chose it at random. It _was_ three in the morning, after all. If it had been any other night, John might have felt concern for the other tenants next door. However, that night, he believed they were long due for missing some sleep.

John chucked, and Sherlock let out a sniff of amusement, at the sound of a heavy broom falling to the floor from the storey below.


	11. Epilogue

Cursing the Chief Superintendent colourfully in his mind, Lestrade glanced at the clock on his desk and rubbed his face with both hands. He leaned back in his chair, stretching his back after the long hours that he hadn't expected to still be awake for. That is, until the Chief had called, demanding some obscure paperwork at last minute. Lestrade had called Donovan, who turned out to be busy in the station's forensic lab and couldn't exactly leave. He then called Anderson, who had been originally responsible for the paperwork before giving some vague reason why he was unable. Unfortunately, he was also busy in the forensic lab. Lestrade was almost tempted to go down there and demand one of them do it, if he wasn't so worried about what exactly he'd find happening in the forensic lab.

It was nearly three thirty in the morning, and Lestrade was finally faxing off the paperwork to the Chief, his eyes smarting as he punched in the number. It didn't help that he'd spent the first extra hour puzzling over the information the Dublin dispatch had sent over. To say that it was meagre would be a compliment; there was hardly enough information to say that O'Neil had been Irish, and that could have been assumed by the name. The sniper himself had nothing better. Where Steve had gotten the rest of the information had been worrying on the DI's brain for the rest of the night, and every answer he came up with seemed to only make him more uneasy. John's lack of answers on top of it, plus the extra work set by the Chief, didn't exactly make Lestrade's night a pleasant one.

Lestrade was just turning of his desk lamp when his fax machine started whirring. _Christ…not again._ He couldn't believe that the Chief would send over more work. Did he not realise that it was going on Lestrade's twenty-first hour without sleep, with nothing to run on but a blueberry bagel in the morning, a croissant in the afternoon, and coffee; about five times what should be the legal dose in a given day? Well, no, of course he didn't. But he should bloody well _assume._

Lestrade made to drink the last bit of his last cup, but thought better of it. He set it aside, planning to drink it in despair when he sat down again with the new paperwork. At least it wasn't very many pages; it stopped after five. He pulled them out of the machine and took a look at the first sheet.

His eyebrows knitted when he saw that it wasn't, in fact, sent by the Chief. The front was stamped with an insignia, but it was faded to the point that he couldn't distinguish it, other then the fact that it wasn't the Yard's. The rest of the front page was blank, except for a few lines of handwritten scrawl. Lestrade thought the writing looked strangely familiar.

_Here are the papers I used. I hope you find them informative. –S_

With a flash of understanding, Lestrade realised what the papers were. _What is Steve doing sending me them at three thirty in the morning?_ he thought moodily, his mind not thinking up any innocent possibilities. _Well, if all else fails, I'm sure we can trace the fax number._ He flipped over the first sheet.

If he was confused by the first page, he was completely lost on the second. _What in Gods name…_ He stared, blankly, at the few lines of typed script.

Act as though they know more (they do not)

Act as though the obvious is obscure

Eye contact MINIMAL

PLEASE/TY

Smile (nicely)

Assume an expression of sombreness at CS

GREG

Be courteous. IGNORE ANDERSON

Lestrade could not make head nor tail of the entire sheet. He saw his name, simply written on its own, and was mystified further. "Be courteous. Ignore Anderson"? Well, that didn't exactly _not_ make sense…he shook his head and flipped over the next sheet.

This one, like the first, was completely devoid of typed script, though it was fairly blanketed with handwriting in red ink. Seeing the colour, Lestrade remembered back at the first crime scene, when Steve had borrowed the red pen. Though when Lestrade started reading, he saw with greater bewilderment that it clearly wasn't mathematical calculations.

I'm sorry that you don't understand these things

I'm sorry that you are unable to und

I apologise if you feel like you can't

I apologise that you don't know a simple grade school cal

I'm sorry that you are all at such a level of idiocy that

I apologise if I've made you two feel inadequate in any way

This page Lestrade stared at for a good while. He sat down, slowly, still gazing at the writing, which still looked incredibly familiar. He felt something stir in his weary mind, and he shook his head slowly, rubbing his eyes with his hand.

"No…" he muttered. He flipped the next few pages. They were all blank, save for multiple lines of senseless swirls and scribbles. He went back to the first, and, no longer feeling his fatigue, stared at the message written with wide eyes. Then, his eyes fell on the initial.

He dropped the sheets on his desk, and stared unseeingly at the corner of the fax machine. And, though only ten minutes previous he had been praying for the moment he could leave, Greg Lestrade sat there, staring at a fax machine, for another half an hour.

* * *

 

"C'mon." Anderson said, obviously attempting to sound persuasive, but only succeeding in sounding whiny. "It's nearly four in the morning."

"Um, yeah, exactly my point." Donovan squeezed a drop of solution into a test tube and swirled it gently, watching the colour dissipate. "Not in the mood."

"Don't know why I even stayed, then." he grumbled, picking up his black light again and turning back to a pile of rubbish he was supposed to be analysing.

"Neither do I." Donovan muttered under her breath.

She was just about to add another drop when she felt her phone vibrate. " _Damn!"_ she swore, as the drop went flying. She fumbled with the dropper, putting it back in the bottle, while trying work the phone out of her pocket. "Who's calling at bloody four in the morning?" She pulled it out and clicked it on. "Here, hold. Don't tip it," she hissed to Anderson, who by that time had abandoned his black light, and nearly dropped the test tube she pushed on him. Spitting some hair out of her mouth, she put the phone to her ear. "Sergeant Donovan." she said briskly, mentally thanking God that she and Anderson hadn't been in the middle of something.

"Ah, yes, Sally, was it?" a nasally Welsh accent said smoothly. "I hope I didn't wake you, I had been informed you work late…"

"Well, this is more early the late. Who's this?" She couldn't quite place the voice, though it rang a small, insignificant bell.

"Steve Daniel, I helped on a few cases, and was at the pub meet-up a few weeks ago, believe it or not."

"Oh." Donovan remembered now. Ginger bloke with the beard, all questions. The one Anderson had repeatedly told her was a "bloody sheepshagger" at the Nicolas Green crimescene. "Right. Hi."

"I know this might seem rather strange, but I was wondering…you never did finish that story you were telling at the pub."

"Which? Oh, the one about Sherlock Holmes?" Donovan switched ears. "No, I didn't. Why?"

"I was curious how it ended."

She raised her eyebrows. Anderson was looking at her, his expression confused, both hands awkwardly clutching the test tube. "Well…Like I said, the man admitted to being a fraud, and he committed suicide. He couldn't take the consequences for what he'd done, I suppose."

"Really?" Steve sounded shocked. "That seems rather strange…"

"Well, no, not exactly. Things like that happen every day."

"Not to the extent that he seemed to take it."

"Hmm." She couldn't suppress a yawn. "Listen, Steve, if that's all, I have work that I really need to get done, so…"

"Oh, of course." he said pleasantly. "Don't let me keep you from your trivial solution mixing."

"Thank…" she stopped, frowning. "I don't think I mentioned what I was d—."

"Oh, don't worry, you didn't."

She felt a prickling on the back of her neck. Nervously, she glanced around, looking for cameras, though she never remembered them being there before.

"Don't be ridiculous, there aren't cameras in the lab."

She turned slowly back to the front, pressing the phone uncomfortably tight to her ear. "How in the hell—"

"The moment you picked up the phone, I heard you tell another person to hold something, and not to "tip it". Of course, that could have been anything from a champagne glass to a potted plant, but the fact that you had to hand it to someone at all either suggested that you weren't near a table, which I ruled out as I heard something set down just prior, or that the bottom of the object wasn't particularity sturdy. It is also evident that the substance inside shouldn't be spilled, so obviously it's of a delicate nature that shouldn't be over-agitated. I ruled out anything heated or especially corrosive by the lack of click that is usually associated with a phone hitting the plastic sides of safety goggles, and also by the fact that you spat your hair out of your mouth; it not being tied back for anything particularly hazardous. So, a fairly non-dangerous solution was the best guess. These assumptions were further supported by the distinctive squeaking sound at close proximity, the sound of rubber gloves holding a phone, a noise to which I'm quite familiar. That you were in a lab was a good presumption by then, especially with the slight echo in your voice."

It was then that the voice suddenly dropped its accent and deepened into baritone, and the familiarity chilled Donovan to the marrow. "That you don't observe is painfully obvious, but your lack of sight is what is particularly astounding, evident by both your tunnel vision making you incapable of seeing past your own inaccurate assumptions, and the fact that you have copulated with Anderson." There was a pause. Then the voice spoke again, with an undertone of amusement. "Tell him I said hi, and that he should continue picking through rubbish. It could very well be the noblest job he has ever performed."

There was a click as the caller hung up. Though there was silence on the other end, Donovan didn't bring the phone down.

"Sally, what is it?" Anderson demanded. "Who was that?" She didn't reply. "Who was on the phone?" he asked again, louder, as though even with the room being completely silent, there was a possibility that she'd missed his words. He was getting rather tired of holding the test tube, and she wasn't making any effort to answer him. Curiously, she seemed unable to move; she only continued gazing across the room, a look of horror etched upon her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, you guys!


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